The Valley of the Shadow, Part 1
by Mary Catherine Marshall
Summary: The Mother Superior Tales continue ...


**Valley of the Shadow, Part 1**

Emerson Cates Kuryakin raised her head and looked at the face of her sleeping husband, willing his eyes to open. They didn't.

She stood slowly and stretched, raising her arms above her head and listening to the snap and pop of various joints. "Kuryakin," she said aloud, "you'd better wake up soon before this body falls completely apart." The door opened quietly behind her.

"I though you were in bed," Charlie said, frowning at her friend.

"I was," Emerson answered, pressing the small of her back against the wall. "I slept almost 7 hours, Charlie. That's more than I've managed in months."

Charlie shook her head. "Not enough, Em. I've ordered breakfast for you and a nap to follow."

Emerson sighed, pushing away from the wall and rubbing her belly. "I'm not tired, I'm … I'm impatient. I'm worried. I'm pissed that he's not awake yet." She paused at Illya's bedside and toyed his long blond hair tossed across the pillow. "I just want him to wake up, smile, and say something obnoxious. Is that too much to ask?"

"No, and if it were you'd ask anyway," the young doctor said, checking Illya's chart. "His numbers are good … blood pressure, pulse, respirations. His EEG is normal or at least normal for him under the circumstances." She walked to the glass fronted cabinet and withdrew a syringe and vial. She loaded the syringe and glanced at Emerson.

"Call it a little 'jump start'." She pushed the contents of the syringe into the IV tubing and waited, watching the monitor closely. The numbers rose immediately, not dangerously, but rose nonetheless. "Talk to him."

"Nikala," Emerson said, her lips brushing his ear. "Open your eyes, please. You know how the Old Man feels about sleeping on company time." His eyelids fluttered.

"I know you're in there," she said, voice a little louder, more insistent. "Come on, my little Cossack, open those eyes." She squeezed his hand.

His eyelids opened slowly and blinked, seeking to focus on the source of the disturbance. He frowned and tried to retrieve his hand. "Go away!" he rasped. "I wish to sleep!"

"Well, we know that at least the nasty part of his personality survived," Charlie said, jotting a note in Volume 3 of the Kuryakin medical file.

"Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin!" Emerson said, her voice sharp. "You've slept enough!"

He opened his eyes and glared at her. "_You_ are disturbing me!"

Emerson leaned down and kissed his cheek. "This ain't the half of it, moj upr'amyj russkij" (my obstinate Russian), she said. "Rise and shine!"

Illya pushed up slowly on an elbow, his eyes widened and he gasped in pain. Charlie grinned. "Take it easy, Blue-eyes. You've done more than a little damage."

He slid down slowly, catching his breath, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. "Em?"

"Da, Nikala."

"You are pregnant."

"There's that razor sharp power of observation known and feared by both UNCLE and Thrush," she said, her words tinged with laughter.

* * *

Later that day Emerson stood on the observation deck as the deprogramming crew began its work. She hated the process, but took a little comfort in the fact that Charlie was seated next to Illya watching the monitor like a hawk.

"Are you sure you should be here, Em?" Napoleon asked, joining her at the hexagonal glass panels.

"Where else should I be, Napoleon? At home, knitting baby booties?" Her voice was sharp and Napoleon winced involuntarily.

"Sorry, Napasha," she said, welcoming his arm around her watermelon sized middle and leaning her head against his shoulder. "It's been … a challenge."

Napoleon chuckled. "You're as bad as The Russian with your massive understatements." He kissed her hair. "It's okay, Em. I'm just concerned for you, that all." He watched Dr. Hern complete her preparations and Dr. Sherrill administer medication.

"This will help you to relax, Illya," Thomas Sherrill said, stepping back and watching the monitor. Illya's breathing relaxed and his blood pressure dropped slightly. "That's very good, Illya. Very good." Charlie jotted notes.

"Ready when you are, Thom," Julianna Hern said from behind a bank of computer screens and dials. Sherrill nodded and she flipped a toggle switch that set computer tapes whirling recording the session.

"Illya, I'm seating headphones that will help us commence deprogramming. You'll hear a series of pops and clicks followed by an uninterrupted stream of information." Sherrill settled the headphones and the spoke softly into a microphone. "If you can hear my voice clearly, Illya, please raise your right hand." Illya's hand slowly rose. "When you are ready, please begin to speak."

Emerson tensed, the baby jumped, and Charlie charted Illya's vitals. "Thom," the doctor said, watching Illya's stats begin inching up, "I'll call a halt if things get out of hand."

Sherrill frowned. "It is critical, Dr. Charles, that we begin this process now. In fact, we've already lost time while you were dealing with his physical injuries. The longer we delay the more difficult the process will be for him."

Charlie stood, facing her colleague. "As I said, Dr. Sherrill, I _will_ call a halt to this if I deem it necessary." She watched Illya's blood pressure hover at 150/80. "What's your time frame?"

Sherrill glanced at his watch. "I would hope to have at least an hour with this session." Illya's blood pressure rose to 160/90.

"You've got another 10 minutes or 10 points diastolic, which ever comes first," Charlie said, noting that Illya's pulse rate, respirations, and temperature were also rising, but at a slower pace.

"That's not enough time," Sherrill said, his voice sharp.

Charlie shrugged. "Not my problem, Thom. He's my patient and my responsibility." She glanced at the monitor that read 165/92. "You're pushing the envelope now, Thom. Shut it down. Now."

Sherrill glared at Charlie. "This is critical, Dr. Charles. The longer we wait …"

Charlie held up her hand. "I'm not interested in you or what you want. I'm interested in Illya." She turned to face Sherrill. "I'm thinking that it will be more difficult for you to ferret out the information you're looking for if he's dead. Shut it down or I'll do it for you." Her blue eyes were hard and unrelenting. Julianna decided to follow Charlie's order and the computer tapes slowed to a stop.

"Thank you, Thom. I'll take it from here." Charlie removed the headphones and watched the monitor as Illya's vitals returned to normal ranges. She signaled two orderlies who lifted him gently to a gurney and returned him to medical. Glancing at Sherrill, she smiled. "I'll be in touch about the next session. I want him to rest and have something to eat. I doubt that you'll have another chance today."

Sherrill's face was livid. "Dr. Charles, I am … displeased … with your meddlesome attitude regarding this deprogramming! I will file an official complaint."

Charlie paused at the door. "You may file a complaint with the medical division, the science division, Section 2, Section 1 and the goddamn AMA." She stepped into the hallway and the door closed behind her.

Emerson patted her belly and Napoleon smiled. "Your Auntie Charlie is a force of nature," she said, talking to the unborn baby. "A real force of nature."

* * *

Angelique patted her blonde hair, checked her lipstick, and jumped out of her silver Corvette. Her sensual walk carried her into an unremarkable building, across the lobby, and into an elevator. She chose a button and smiled as the car whisked her down.

"Miss DuChein," the male receptionist said, leering at the shapely woman, "the Council is awaiting you." Angelique nodded and pressed her right palm against a glass plate in the wall. A hidden door glided open and she clicked down the hallway stopping just shy of a set of heavy oaken doors. She smoothed her skirt and tugged at her jacket. The doors opened automatically.

An elderly man, seated at the head of the conference table, smiled at her as she entered. "Ah, Angelique," he purred, taking her hand and brushing it with a kiss. "How good to see you, my dear."

Her cornflower blue eyes took in the five members of the Council. She smiled her most devastatingly charming smile, perched her well-rounded hip on the edge of the polished mahogany table, and smoothed her silk stockings.

"How may I be of service, gentlemen?" she asked, bestowing her smile on each man individually.

Gustav Szauer, chief of Thrush Eastern Europe, frowned, refusing to be captivated by this obviously decadent woman. "I will tell you, Miss DuChein," he thundered. "Dr. Devon-Jones, the destroyed lab, the failed project, and Illya Kuryakin! You will explain yourself!"

Angelique allowed the tiniest of frowns to mar her beautiful face. "Herr Szauer, it is not necessary to shout," she said evenly. "I am prepared to report to you and to your colleagues." She stood and squared the shoulders of her navy blue Chanel suit.

"Miss DuChein," Lao Chin-Tze, chief of Thrush Asia, said softly, "allow me, please, to apologize for my colleague." The small Chinese man glared at Szauer. "We are, however, most distressed at the failure of this assignment." He spread his delicate hands in resignation. "We hope that you will shed some light on this situation."

Angelique smiled. "Of course, Mr. Lao," she said, bowing to him. "You are correct. It was a most distressing failure. If Mr. Trap will permit it, I will explain the entire situation." The elderly man, Dr. Eligeus Trap, pressed a button. A screen lowered and the lights dimmed. She took the remote control and began.

"This is Dr. Timothy Devon-Jones," she said, her voice soft and sweet. "The professor made contact with our organization nearly two years ago claiming that he had research that would make the development of an EHD Electro Hydrodynamics, based on the Biefeld-Brown Effect, possible." She clicked to the next slide. "This is the device that Dr. Devon-Jones and his lab produced."

"It is very small," M. Louis DuMond, chief of Thrush Europe, said, frowning at the device. "How could it possibly be effective?"

"Ah, c'est la merveille de cela, M. DuMond," (Ah, it is the marvel of it) Angelique said, her accent flawless. "The device, a thruster of sorts, is effective when used as a space based launch platform." The slides changed.

"This is a prototype," she said, clicking for the next slide. "Multiple EHD powered rockets are stored on this platform and managed from an Earth based launch control. Using satellites, it could be directed toward stores of nuclear devices on the planet ... or, other targets as you choose. If necessary, the EHD could be launched at will effectively destroying whatever was in its path … nuclear devices would be rendered useless."

"I do not understand why Thrush would be interested in destroying stores of nuclear weapons," Jose del Gatto Martinez, chief of Thrush South America, said, frowning at the slide. "It would seem more reasonable for us to develop our own store of nuclear materials and weapons."

Angelique smiled into the darkness and nodded. "So it would seem, Senor del Gatto," she said. "However, the acquisition of fissile materials is troublesome at best and nigh on impossible at worst." She clicked off the projector and the lights came up. "It seemed logical … still seems logical … to hold the existing nuclear devices hostage, for wont of a better word."

The four continental chiefs glanced at each other and nodded. "But, Miss DuChein," Szauer noted, "the experiment was a colossal failure."

Angelique perched her hip on the table. "Im Gegenteil, Herr Szauer," (on the contrary) she said, her smile feral. "While this particular experiment was a failure, the lab and prototypes were destroyed, the research remains in tact." Five sets of eyes widened in surprise.

"Remains in tact?" Lao asked, incredulity thick in his voice. "The entire facility was destroyed by that Russian! Nothing remained that would assist us in continuing this project."

Angelique's manicured hand rested on Trap's. "That is the report that I issued and the report that you have." She rose and walked the circuit of the table. "I must confess that I couched the report in terms more grim than necessary." She pouted prettily. "I'm sure, gentlemen that you will forgive me."

* * *

"You will go _home_ and you _will_ rest," Alexander Waverly commanded, his pale blue eyes sparked with anger.

"I have no need to go home and I'm rested, Alexander," Emerson replied, her voice even and unbothered.

"You have small children who haven't seen you in several days," he said, standing next to her chair. His weathered hand rested on her shoulder. "This is for your own good, Emie."

She smiled and patted his hand. "There is no good apart from the Command, Uncle Alex."

"Do not quote my own words to me!" He stalked to the windows and fumbled with his pipe. "Mr. Kuryakin is making progress. I order you to go home!"

She turned her chair to face him. "My children are in good hands, Uncle Alex. Cav and Mrs. Stein have things well under control." She hoisted her very pregnant body up and joined him. "The Kuryakin kids are used to having their parents away from home. And, it's only been four days."

The elderly man shook his head. "You are impossible, Emie."

"So I've been told … numerous times."

"Mr. Kuryakin would not want you to be here, you know that."

"Illya would rather have me anywhere but here, Uncle Alex," she said, staring out the windows. "At this point in my rather checkered career I'm sure he would be in agreement with you." She walked to the round table and slipped on her shoes. "I'll make you a deal."

"I do not 'make deals', Emie."

"I think you'll take this one." She returned to his side and rested her hand on his. "I'll check in with medical, talk to Charlie, and then I'll head home. Okay?"

"In that order," he responded. "I will call your apartment and make sure that you are there."

She walked to the door. "I'll call you when I get there."

* * *

"Wondered when you'd show up," Charlie said, grinning at her friend.

"I promised Uncle Alex that I'd check on Illya, talk to you, and then go home."

Charlie rolled her eyes. "And when's the last time you kept your word?"

"I'm here, aren't I? I'm talking to you, aren't I?" Emerson chuckled. "Two out of three ain't bad!"

"Come on, let's go check on Blue-eyes and then I'm packing your ass home!"

The door to his room hissed open and the two women entered. Emerson took the sleeping Russian's hand and held it near her heart. "Everybody around here thinks that I should rest." She smiled at him and leaned down to kiss his mouth.

"_Everybody_ is correct," he whispered.

"You are one sneaky bastard, Kuryakin," she said, laughingly. "I'm not tired and the kids don't even know that I'm gone." His grip on her hand increased and his eyes opened slowly.

"You must prepare them for my homecoming," he said, offering a weak smile. "I do not want them surprised."

"I've got plenty of time to prepare them, moj vozl'ublennyj," (my beloved) she said as his hand moved to her belly.

"Why did you not send word, Em?"

She rested her hand on his. "You had more than enough to deal with, Nikala. My goal was to have you home in time … and here you are."

His eyes sought hers. "I would have ended the assignment. I would have come home."

"I know you would have, Nikala," she said, smiling at him. "And, you would have regretted the decision, hated the fact that you would have had to make such a choice." She kissed his forehead. "So, I took care of it for you."

"Em …"

"No. You're here and safe. Everything's fine. Dr. Schumann thinks it's a boy, which will make Nicky deliriously happy." She kissed his lips. "Now, go to sleep and I'll see you tomorrow."

He closed his eyes and listened as she left. "Charlie?"

"Yes, Illya."

"Is she all right?"

"She's fine. The baby's fine. Don't worry about anything."

"You are not humoring me, are you?"

"Never, Cossack! I value my life too much." The door closed quietly behind her.

Illya rubbed his temples. The headache was back in spades.

* * *

Angelique smiled at the five men as she walked around the room. A huge part of her skill as an agent lay in her body and she used it to full advantage.

"Gentlemen," she said, stopping at the end of the table and leaning on her hands. Her Chanel jacket now rested on an empty chair and the crème colored shell blouse dipped to show her cleavage. "While the experiment was lost it is no loss to Thrush."

"How can you say that?" Szauer growled. "We spent millions of dollars and have nothing to show for it!"

She nodded in agreement. "At the present moment you have nothing to show for it." She moved behind Szauer's chair and rested his palms on his shoulders. He moved uneasily beneath her touch. "You should be aware that while the project belonged to Dr. Devon-Jones, the work, the research, belongs to Illya Kuryakin."

"I fail to see how that improves our position, Miss DuChein," Lao said, glancing at Trap. "Mr. Kuryakin has been retrieved by UNCLE and, at this moment, is being deprogrammed."

"So it would seem," Angelique said, smiling at the chief of Asian operations. "But, things are not always as they seem, isn't that correct, Eligeus?"

Trap chuckled. "So it would seem, Angelique." He addressed his confused and perplexed chiefs. "Miss DuChein augmented Mr. Kuryakin's programming." He spread his thin fingers across the table. "While he was in the employ of Dr. Devon-Jones, Miss DuChein was assigned the task of 'protecting' Mr. Kuryakin. At first, we were convinced that Mr. Kuryakin had, in deed, turned. His work with Dr. Devon-Jones was nothing short of exemplary and remained so throughout his stay." He glanced at Angelique who took up the thread.

"A part of my 'protection' of Mr. Kuryakin was keeping him on task … our task." She smiled at the men. "Do not let my appearance fool you, gentlemen. I am a well trained and widely experienced agent." She touched her hair lightly. "Among my skills is an interest in chemistry … pharmaceuticals, to be exact." She wrapped her arms around Trap's boney shoulders. "I developed a drug that worked in concert with UNCLE's programming. Over a period of weeks Mr. Kuryakin became a walking repository of the research, just waiting to be retrieved."

"How will you accomplish that task, Miss DuChein?" del Gatto asked. "He is presently at UNCLE headquarters unavailable to you."

Angelique nodded. "True enough, gentlemen. They will successfully deprogram Agent Kuryakin … after a fashion." She released Trap and retrieved her jacket. Del Gatto assisted her. "They will not recognize that he has had secondary programming. When the moment presents itself, and it will present itself, we will retrieve what is rightfully ours." She collected her gloves and handbag.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen." The door closed soundly behind her.

* * *

Emerson arrived just as her family sat down to dinner. She tossed her keys in the basket, kicked off her shoes, and padded into the dining room.

"Save some for me?" she asked, grinning at her brood.

"Mama!" they chorused, racing to greet her. Nicky pressed his face against her belly, eager to feel the baby move and kick.

"Privet, mladshij bratik! My zhdem Vas!" (Hello, baby brother! We're waiting for you!) he said his lips against her shirt.

Emerson tousled his hair and laughed. "Great, Nicky. Start the kid off with Russian! Everybody back to the table, we need to talk."

Tasha offered the dinner prayer and then every little face turned to Emerson. Anushka, claiming her rightful place as eldest, asked, "Has something happened to Papa?"

Emerson touched her face and smiled. "Papa's home." Pandemonium broke out. "Quiet please! I'm not finished!" she called over the din. The children settled.

"Papa had a small accident, but he will be okay."

"Accident, Mama?" Tia asked, her blue eyes serious.

Emerson crossed her fingers, at least in her head, and forged on. "A car accident and he broke his leg and bruised a few ribs. You know how Papa drives!" She grinned and they joined her.

"He will be home very soon and I want you to try and be quiet and be careful of him. Okay?"

They nodded in unison and then dissolved into excited conversation that started in English, moved to French, and ended in Russian. Emerson rolled her eyes and smiled.

After dinner, she supervised bath time since it was physically impossible for her to reach the tub, tucked them in, read bedtime stories, and heard their prayers. She paused in the upstairs hallway and listened to them settle into sleep, shaking her head in pure amazement.

Cav and Mrs. Stein joined her in the living room for a drink and some quiet conversation. The two older women filled her in on the last four days and Emerson told of Illya's recovery.

"He'll be home soon, then?" Mrs. Stein asked, her eyes brimming with tears.

"Early next week, I think," Emerson answered, grateful again to have these two women in her life. "Thank you for all your help."

Cav shrugged and grinned at Mrs. Stein. "I'll have the kids ready for him. Don't worry."

"And, I'll be at the market," Mrs. Stein added. "He will need plenty of good Russian food to help him recover!" Emerson could imagine the shopping list in Mrs. Stein's head and chuckled.

They headed off to their rooms and Emerson finished her drink feeling suddenly very tired. She levered her body off of the couch and waddled down the hall to the bedroom. A nice, cool shower later, she pulled on her soft, cotton caftan and opened the doors to the bedroom roof garden.

A few stars sparkled in the July darkness and she leaned against the balustrade, enjoying the light breeze. "Thank you," she whispered into the night.

* * *

Charlie pushed Illya's wheelchair toward the deprogramming unit in Section 8. "Feeling up to this?" she asked.

"I am fine."

She shook her head. "You're like a baby whose first word is 'No'."

"But, I _am_ fine, Charlie," he insisted, his fingers unconsciously rubbing his temple.

"Headache?"

"No worse than usual." She stopped at the elevator and pushed the button.

"What's usual, Kuryakin?" she asked, kneeling at his side.

"It is nothing, Charlie," he said, smiling for her. "I did suffer two concussions. I am entitled to a headache."

She frowned. "You're not entitled to a damn thing in my section unless I say so. If this keeps up …"

Illya raised his hand. "You will wish to investigate further."

"Bet you ass, Blondie," she said, moving into the elevator. "I'm keeping close tabs on your vitals. If things begin to go south I'll stop the procedure, again."

Illya turned toward her. "No, Charlie. I wish to complete this task and go home. I cannot until I am deprogrammed and debriefed."

She rolled her eyes. "You've already been debriefed. I'm convinced that Sherrill and the guys from R&D are just picking your brain."

He chuckled and touched her hand. "My debriefing is not complete until the deprogramming is complete, you know that." He shrugged. "As to Dr. Sherrill … he is a scientist and I am his latest project."

The doors opened and they entered the all too familiar room. Illya eased himself onto the recliner and Charlie covered him with a light blanket.

"They always keep these places like a meat locker," she said, smiling at him.

"Interesting allusion, Charlie," Illya said wryly. "That is exactly how I feel … like a piece of meat." He closed his eyes. Charlie frowned. It wasn't like Illya to speak so candidly about his feelings.

Dr. Thomas Sherrill appeared at her side. "Ready?" he asked, grinning at her.

Charlie glared at him. _He's entirely too happy, too pleasant, for my taste,_ she thought. "Just a reminder Thom," she said, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around Illya's right arm and attaching electrodes to his chest, "I call the shots."

Sherrill's smile disappeared, replaced by a glare. "This has to be done, Dr. Charles. Mr. Waverly has personally order it."

Charlie snorted derisively. "I'm the only person in UNCLE who can override his orders. Something else you seem to have forgotten."

Dr. Julianna Hern watched the exchange and frowned. "When you two are ready …"

Charlie smiled at Hern. "Sorry, Julianna. A little professional disagreement." Julianna nodded and returned Charlie's smile.

"Same process as last time, Illya," Sherrill said, tying off Illya's left arm and preparing an IV set. He inserted the catheter and released the tourniquet. "We're in, Illya. I'll set up a bag of D5W and lactated ringers solution and we'll be ready."

Charlie opened Illya's chart and noted the procedures. She watched as Sherrill drew 5 mg. of liquid into a syringe and reached for the tubing.

"What's that?" she asked, pen poised above the paper.

"Valium," Sherrill said, injecting the drug. "Exactly what I used last time. " He seated the headphones on Illya's head and pulled up a lab stool. "Illya, if you can hear me raise your right hand, please." Illya's hand rose. Julianna flipped several toggles and the tapes whirred.

Illya's respirations, pulse rate, and blood pressure remained at normal levels, low for anyone else. Charlie recorded the numbers.

"Illya," Sherrill said his normally buoyant voice soft, "you were sent deep undercover to work on the development of an EHD. Do you remember?"

Illya's eyelids fluttered. "Da." Charlie noted the switch to Russian, something she hadn't noticed in the previous deprogramming attempt

"I want you to provide a detailed description of the research. As minute as possible. Do you understand?"

Illya nodded and began recounting his work. His vitals remained within acceptable ranges. Sherrill provided positive feedback, encouraging Illya to continue. After more than an hour, Illya fell silent.

"What's happening, Thom?" Charlie asked, frowning as Illya's numbers began to drop slowly.

"Illya?" Sherrill asked, frowning at his subject. "Please answer me."

Charlie put an oxygen mask over Illya's face and turned the regulator to 15 liters per minute. "His blood pressure is 100/70," she said, glaring at Sherrill. "Bring him up."

"He's doing fine, Dr. Charles," Sherrill answered, pulling another syringe from his pocket. He reached for the IV tubing only to be stayed by Charlie's hand.

"He doesn't need more Valium, Sherrill," she cautioned. "His pulse is down to 45. Bring him out now, or I will!"

Sherrill frowned. "I said that he's doing fine," he snapped. "This is not unusual for such deep programming. Let's let him rest a minute and I'm sure that things will stabilize."

Charlie turned to the drug cabinet and loaded a syringe with adrenaline. Sherrill injected the syringe that he held.

* * *

Napoleon sauntered into his boss' office, straightening his tie, and shooting his cuffs. Just knowing that Illya was almost finished with the ordeal of debriefing made him feel better about the state of the world. Now, if this meeting didn't change things …

"Mr. Solo," Waverly said, not glancing up from his file, "please be seated."

Napoleon slipped into his customary chair and waited while his boss collected his thoughts. The CEA mentally calculated the number of weeks … days … before Illya would be angling to return to field duty. Waverly's ragged voice jerked him back to reality.

"A situation has developed regarding Mr. Kuryakin."

The small hairs on Napoleon's neck stood at attention. "What's happened?"

Waverly stood and walked to the windows, his cold pipe clinched between his teeth. "Dr. Charles reports that Mr. Kuryakin fell ill during the second attempt at deprogramming." The old man turned to face his CEA. "The situation, at present, is rather serious."

Without thinking, Napoleon stood and walked quickly to the door.

"Mr. Solo!" Waverly ordered. Napoleon skidded to a stop.

"Yes, sir?"

"There is nothing that you can do for Mr. Kuryakin at the moment, nothing in the medical realm at any rate." His boss seemed suddenly small and elderly to Napoleon. "Mr. Kuryakin is resting comfortably in the intensive care unit under the care of Dr. Charles. We are awaiting Emerson's arrival. You are to meet her and escort her to medical. Once she is settled, report back to me."

"Yes, sir." Napoleon took the stairs to the parking garage, two at a time.

* * *

Angelique pulled at her sleep mask and cursed the telephone. She chipped a nail trying to grab the receiver, worsening her mood.

"DuChein," she answered, anger and sleep in her voice.

"Plan B is in effect."

The line went dead.

* * *

Dr. Beatrix Marxer laid the telex on her desk and rubbed her face. Only Alexander Waverly would be so bold as to contact her after years of silence. She glanced at her desk clock and answered the ringing telephone.

"Alexander," she said, her French accent pronounced. "It is I, Beatrix."

"I need your help, Beatrix," the Hemispheric Chief of UNCLE said, his voice reflecting his relief. "With your permission, I am sending an agent to collect you."

Dr. Marxer stood and walked to the windows of her Paris apartment watching the sun rise over the City of Lights. "This is a very serious situation, Alexander. I do not know if I will be of any use to you."

Waverly sighed. "Come and we will decide that after you have examined Mr. Kuryakin."

"I shall be waiting, Alexander," she said, her mind already considering this most puzzling case. "My affection to Lina. Bon au revoir."

* * *

Emerson crawled into bed and hugged Illya's pillow, willing sleep to come. When it didn't, she padded into the study and grabbed a trashy novel hoping to bore herself to sleep.

Just as the damsel in distress was about to be ravished by the nasty Earl, the phone rang. She started at the sound and the baby jumped with her.

Few people had access to her home telephone number and at 1 a.m., she knew that the call was critical.

"Cates."

"I'm sending your car," Alexander Waverly said his voice calm but tired.

"What's happened?" she asked, hoping that her voice sounded just as calm but knowing that it didn't.

"A situation involving Mr. Kuryakin has developed, Emie. Mr. Solo will meet you in the parking garage." The line went dead.

She heaved herself up, angry that her hands were shaking and her body trembling. "Get a grip, Cates!" she ordered, quickly changing her clothing. In the entry way, she grabbed her purse and keys and headed out the door.

Agent Haskins, young, serious, and soft spoken, opened the car door and ushered her in. The ride to headquarters seemed to last for hours, although she knew they were breaking multiple traffic laws. More than one red light sailed by unheeded.

The black sedan pulled into the parking garage and slowed to a stop in front of the open elevator doors. Agent Haskins opened the car door and Napoleon offered his hand.

"How is he?" she asked, taking his hand and moving slowly out of the car.

"Charlie tells me that she's induced a barbiturate coma," Napoleon said, still holding her hand. "They were deprogramming when he had a grand mal seizure." The elevator arrived in medical. "He's resting comfortably."

Napoleon thought that he had never seen Emerson so pale or so quiet. He slipped his arm around her and they walked toward a knot of doctors and technicians outside of intensive care. Charlie slipped away from the group.

"Em," she said softly, taking her pregnant friend into her arms, "the barbiturate coma has stopped the seizure activity for the moment. His vitals are good and the EEG shows only normal activity." The dark haired doctor pulled back and smiled. "First room on the left."

Emerson entered the dimly lit room quietly and paused, taking in all of the medical equipment surrounding her husband. Two IV lines kept him hydrated. An airway and vent were in place, but he was triggering the device. Electrodes scattered throughout his blond hair, near his closed eyelids, and between his eyebrows, reported brain activity. Cardiac leads attached to his chest monitored his heart rate, respirations, and blood pressure. She glanced at the monitors, pleased at what she saw.

Moving to his bedside, she took his hand and squeezed it. "Nikala," she said her voice low and smoky, "I'm here, moj vozl'ublennyj." She watched the EEG monitor, hoping for some change, some recognition. There was none.

She kissed his cheek and his temple, careful not to dislodge the electrodes. "Tomorrow, I'll bring in your stereo and some of your favorite records. And, I think I'll choose something for us to read together. Something light and cheery." She paused and brushed the long blond hair that tangled at his shoulders. "Definitely not something Russian."

* * *

Angelique slipped her silver Corvette into a parking spot and waited. She checked her Cartier watch. "The bastard's five minutes late," she muttered, her freshly manicured blood red nails tapping on the steering wheel.

Her light blue eyes scanned the empty street and she smiled when a nondescript navy blue sedan pulled to the curb at the opposite end of the block. The driver tapped the brakes twice, then three times, and then twice. She climbed out of the low-slung sports car.

Walking casually across the street, or as casually as she ever walked, Angelique entered a small park and counted the benches until she found the correct one. She sat down, crossed her legs, and brushed an invisible bit of something from the leg of her black leather pants.

Weak light from near by street lamps filtered through the leaves of maple and oak trees casting odd shadows on the broad sidewalk. Reaching for a cigarette, she heard foot falls, but did not look up. A man stopped in front of her.

"Need a light?" he asked, offering his silver lighter. She leaned forward, the steady blue flame illuminating her face.

"You're late."

Thomas Sherrill joined her on the bench, crossing his long legs. He sighed heavily. "Ran into a spot of trouble."

Her eyes narrowed and she flicked a cigarette ash to the pavement. "You handled the situation?"

"Of course," he answered, resting his large hands in his lap. "That goddamn Dr. Charles was trying to interfere, but I took care of it."

"Kuryakin?"

"At the moment he's resting," he chanced a glance at the woman next to him. "Grand mal seizure. Dr. Charles took him to medical and induced a barbiturate coma."

Angelique glared at him. "If you've managed to fuck this up, Sherrill, our deal is finished!" she hissed, grabbing his wrist and applying significant pressure. "You are finished. What did you do to him?"

Sherrill's eyes widened in pain, but he was smart enough not to resist. "I followed our plan to the letter, Angelique," he said, meeting her glare. "Dr. Charles will begin waking him up tomorrow afternoon. We can move Friday night."

Angelique released his wrist and he shook it, trying to reestablish circulation. "You have everything in place?"

"I'll meet you at the warehouse on Friday at 10 p.m. with Kuryakin." He stood and straightened his coat. "You have my payment?"

She unzipped her jumpsuit, exposing the delicate lace of her bra, and smiled at him. "This is _one-half_ of your payment, Sherrill," she said, handing him a plain, white envelope.

He snatched it from her hand and quickly counted the small bills. Fifty thousand dollars in unmarked, non-sequential twenties, fifties, and hundreds. Smiling he slipped the envelope into his pocket. "10 p.m., Friday. I expect the remainder at that time."

Angelique also stood, zipping up her jumpsuit. "You'll be paid when I get what I want and not before." She crushed her cigarette and walked away.

Thomas Sherrill watched the shapely Miss DuChein disappear into the shadows. "Good doing business with you, Angelique."

* * *

Napoleon relaxed into the leather seat of the private UNCLE jet and smiled at the flight agent who delivered his dinner tray.

"Filet de boeuf dans la sauce rouge de vin, les pommes de terre festonnées et l'asperge fraîche dans hollandaise, M. Solo," (Filet of beef in red wine sauce, scalloped potatoes, and fresh asparagus in hollandaise, Mr. Solo) she said, carefully placing his napkin in his lap. "Et, un Bordeaux." (And, Bordeaux). She uncorked the wine and poured. "Bon appétit!"

"Dites merci très beaucoup, mon beau Michelle," (Thank you very much, my beautiful Michelle) he said, kissing her hand. "Rien sur ce plateau n'est aussi délectable que vous, mon cher." (Nothing on this tray is as delectable as you, my dear)

She laughed and brushed her raven hair from her blue eyes. "I will make sure that Dr. Charles hears of this!"

"Michelle! J'ai cru que nous étions des amis!" (Michelle! I thought we were friends!), he protested, winking at her. She returned to the galley and Napoleon returned to his files.

He frowned remembering his conversation earlier this long evening with Waverly.

"You have no curiosity about Dr. Marxer, Mr. Solo?" the old man asked, eyeing his CEA.

_I'm consumed with it,_ the dark haired agent thought, eager to get on with his assignment. "I presume, sir, since you recommend her that you have knowledge of her expertise and that you trust her."

"So I do, Mr. Solo," the elderly man said returning to his desk. He reached for his humidor and packed Isle of Dog No. 22 into the bowl of his Meerschaum pipe. Napoleon offered his silver lighter. "Dr. Marxer and I met many decades ago during my days with the OSS." The air was perfumed with tobacco smoke.

"She worked closely with us, developing some of the first programming techniques ever used in counter intelligence. She is, in my opinion, the very best in this field."

Napoleon read the briefing file. The black and white photograph of Beatrix Marxer showed a woman in her mid-sixties, light colored hair and eyes, and an expression that befitted a friend of Alexander Waverly.

Her background was impressive, even to Napoleon Solo. Dr. Marxer, born a German citizen, joined the ill organized German resistance when she was still in medical school. When Poland fell to the Nazi Heer, she slipped into the country and made her way to Warsaw and the Jewish Ghetto. In the ensuring years, she smuggled arms, helped with escapes, and practiced medicine. With the help of her friends Mordechai Arielewicz and Mira Fuchrer, she escaped the Ghetto through the sewers even as the Nazis burned it to the ground.

The dark haired agent ran his hands over his face. _Such an incredible woman,_ he thought. _Illya will be pleased to know her._

* * *

Charlie eased her way into Illya's room and checked the monitor. Emerson slept in a recliner pulled up to his bedside, her hand tucked beneath his. Someone had supplied a pillow and blankets during the night.

The young doctor turned off the barbiturate IV and increased the flow of Lactated Ringers and D5W. She noted the time and charted the changes.

"Em," she said, glancing at her friend. "Emerson, wake up!" Emerson's eyes opened slowly.

"What?" she asked, throwing the blankets to the floor and moving more quickly than Charlie thought possible for a woman so near her due date. "Is he all right?"

"He's doing well, Em. We've been decreasing the barbiturate drip and we're weaning him from the respirator." Charlie pointed to the monitors. "All of his numbers are excellent."

"When will he wake up?" Emerson asked, brushing a kiss on his cheek.

"He's already started," Charlie said, squeezing Illya's hand. "Should be back on planet earth by 8 or 9. We'll pull the tube as soon as he's awake enough to respond to verbal commands."

Emerson ran her hands through her hair and sighed. "What then, Charlie?" she asked softly. "After all of this …" her hands expressed her fear and frustration, "is Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin still in there somewhere?"

"Jesus, I hope so, Em!" Charlie said, shaking her head and dislodging a curl. "I'm sorry, Em. All I can tell you is that he's waking up, his vitals are normal, and his EEG is consistently on target." She shrugged. "Honestly, though. I don't know."

Emerson took Charlie's hand and smiled. "Lousy answer, Charlie, but I appreciate the truth." She turned her attention to Illya who wriggled slowly. "Let's get that damn tube out. I'm sure that he's got plenty to say."

Charlie tapped Illya's chest lightly and then rubbed his sternum. After a few seconds, eyes still closed, Illya grabbed her hand. Charlie smiled.

"Come on, Blondie," she cajoled, increasing his oxygen to 6 liters, "nice, deep breaths." She watched as Illya responded appropriately. "Good, Illya. Open your eyes for me."

Illya's eyelids fluttered, but didn't open. Emerson leaned in as closely as she could. "Open your eyes, Illya. You can't be my labor coach if you're asleep!" His eyes flew open in a glare. He gestured to the airway and pointed to Charlie.

"That's what I'm getting ready to do, Illya, but I can't take it out until you're awake." He nodded and squeezed Emerson's hand. Charlie released the cuff on the airway. "Okay, Illya. On three." She counted and Illya tried to relax as the airway was pulled out. He gasped and coughed.

"Now for the idiot questions," Charlie said, smiling at her scowling patient. "Do you know where you are?"

"YA nahozhus' v adu," he rasped, his voice barely audible.

Emerson dissolved into laughter and quickly translated for Charlie. "He thinks he's in hell."

"Damn close," Charlie said, grinning at Illya. "Who's this woman?" she asked, pointing to Emerson.

A mischievous glint shown in Illya's eyes. 'YA dolzhen znat' etu zhenschinu?'

Emerson grinned and patted her belly. "Ot vzgl'ada veschej, Vy uzhe znali men'a!" (From the look of things, you've already known me!")

"This is the Reverend Emerson Myer Cates Kuryakin," Illya said, watching a blush creep over her cheeks. "Chief, Section Seven. Field agent, Section 2. Mother of my children. My wife." He kissed her palm. "Moj vozl'ublennyj." (My beloved.)

Charlie sighed. "God, you're good Blue-eyes!" She smiled at her friends. "Em, you've got 10 minutes. I want you to rest." She looked at Illya. "You, well I guess we ought to feed you, if you're up to it."

"Da! Pozhalujsta!" Illya said, his eyes alight. "Yes! Please!" Charlie departed to order a tray of clear liquids. Illya wriggled to his left and opened his arms. Emerson clambered onto the bed.

"Never again, Nikala," she said, kissing down his neck to his chest. She carefully avoided the EKG leads.

"Nikogda snova, Em?" he asked, kissing her hair.

"I'll never allow Alexander to send you deep undercover again." She pulled away and looked him dead in the eyes. "Never."

"Kak Vy zhelayete," he whispered, pulling her back into his embrace. "As you wish."

* * *

Angelique flipped the pages of her desk calendar and smiled. It had been a busy few weeks. First came the necessity of explaining to her handlers why she had felt compelled to save Kuryakin's life rather than let him die in the aftermath of the explosions. The meeting with Wilhelm von Stog, Thrush-New York, was contentious.

"You have failed, Angelique!" the wizened old man rasped, frowning at his most promising protégé. "Kuryakin's life was in your hands and you let him slip away."

She crossed her well-shaped legs allowing her skirt to rise above her knees and show her thighs to full advantage. She leaned forward, inviting him to light her cigarette.

"You underestimate me, darling," she said, drawing deeply on the cigarette.

"Illya Kuryakin is alive and our project is in ashes," he snapped. "I fail to see how I have underestimated the gravity of this situation!"

She stood and leaned against his desk. "My dear Wilhelm. Do you really think that I would have allowed Kuryakin to go unless I had a brilliant plan in place?" Her blue eyes widened and she rested her soft, pale hand on her breast. "I am deeply wounded."

Von Stog glared at her. "Let us hear this 'brilliant plan', Angelique," he said, staving off a coughing attack with a sip of water. "It had better be good or else …"

"Or else _what_, von Stog? You'll feed me to the wolves at Central?" She returned his glare. "I'm not some rookie, old man. I know what I'm doing, so I suggest that you practice a little patience."

"You are walking a very thin line, Angelique," he threatened. "I can and will hang you for this." His watery blue eyes narrowed. "What is your plan?"

Angelique pushed away from the desk and crushed her cigarette in the ashtray. She smoothed her suit, collected her handbag and gloves, and walked toward the door.

"I'll share my plan with Central, Wilhelm," she said, pausing at the door and offering a very feral smile. "There are those in the organization who appreciate my considerable skills. Auf Wiedersehen."

Von Stog's hand trembled as he loosened his tie and silently cursed the woman he both hated and respected.

* * *

"Beatrix," Alexander Waverly said, smiling and brushing her hand with a kiss, "I am deeply grateful that you have come to assist us."

Dr. Marxer smiled at her old friend and colleague. "Alex, it has been too long, much too long." She kissed his cheek and he reciprocated. Napoleon's eyebrow shot up and then immediately returned to neutral.

Waverly indicated a chair for his guest and moved to the credenza. "May I offer you some refreshment? We have coffee, tea, Scotch, vodka, sodas … whatever you would like."

"Vodka, neat," she answered, glancing at Napoleon.

"I trust that your trip was pleasant?"

She grinned at Napoleon and winked. "Really, Alex, with such a delightful and handsome traveling companion, how could it have been anything other than pleasant?" Napoleon blushed at the compliment. Waverly harrumphed.

"You have briefed Dr. Marxer, Mr. Solo?" the old man asked, serving his guest and ignoring his agent.

"Yes, sir. We reviewed the files and Dr. Marxer acquainted herself with the particulars of Illya's case."

Waverly's eyes seemed unable to leave her face. "Very good, Mr. Solo," he said, his voice as distracted as his mind. "You are … um … dismissed." A gnarled hand waved Napoleon out the door.

Dr. Marxer sipped her vodka and watched Waverly prepare his pipe. She smiled. "I am surprised that Lina hasn't broken you of that habit, Alex."

Waverly glanced up and smiled. "She has tried innumerable times, Beatrix, to no avail. It is one of my few vices." He set fire to the bowl of his Meerschaum. "At my age one has precious few."

"I am concerned for your young man … Illya," Beatrix said, opening her file. "I am certain that the conditioning, that which you did here, has been tampered with. I have no doubt that there is an overlay, a secondary conditioning at play."

Waverly nodded and filled the air with the pungent aroma of his pipe. "You are the only person who can handle this, Beatrix," he said, looking grimmer than ever. "How to you propose to address this?"

She stood and walked to the windows. "I appreciate your confidence in me, Alex, but it has been a very long time since I dabbled in such science." She turned to face him. "I am not certain that I will be able to undo whatever has been done."

"All of UNCLE is at your disposal, BeBe," he said, using her old nickname. She smiled.

"It has been even longer since anyone called me BeBe," she said, walking to his side and resting her hands on his shoulders. "How are Lina and the children, Alex?"

Waverly relaxed under her touch. "Lina is very well, still putting up with me. The children are grown and we are grandparents." He laid his hand on hers. "I must be honest, BeBe. I have missed you."

She brushed his cheek with a kiss. "That was a very long time ago, Alex. Another lifetime." Returning to her chair, she smiled and took his hand. "Had things been different …"

He smiled and squeezed her hand. "I believe that I am entitled to a little reverie, BeBe," he said, reaching for his Scotch. "And, I have missed you."

"And I you, Alex," she said, retrieving her vodka. The two old friends sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, memories flashing across their minds. BeBe stood up.

"I would very much like to meet your Mr. Kuryakin, Alex."

Waverly stood and dropped his pipe in the ashtray. "I will escort you," he said, taking her arm. "I believe that you will find him a most interesting young man. And, I believe that you will also find his wife interesting. Perhaps even more so."

The door glided open silently. "I did not believe that your agents were permitted to marry."

Waverly chuckled, pushing the call button. "That was true until a few years ago. The young woman, Mr. Kuryakin's wife, is the reason the policy changed." They entered the elevator and he pushed the floor button. "Sometimes I wonder if it was such a wise decision."

BeBe chuckled, too. "Having spent several hours in the company of Mr. Solo, I can assure you that your decision was brilliant, Alex. He speaks fondly and often of his family and his friends. He is most concerned about Mr. Kuryakin."

"They are partners of several years," Waverly said, holding the door and allowing BeBe to precede him out of the elevator. "The very best partnership in the history of the Command."

"Surpassing even you and Lina?"

"Yes, BeBe. Surpassing us." They stopped at Illya's room. "You should know that Mr. Kuryakin has only recently returned to consciousness, so I am uncertain of his condition at the moment."

"Not to worry, Alex," she said as the door whisked open. "Shall we?"

* * *

Dr. Thomas Sherrill paced impatiently, waiting for the large computer tapes to download and copy. He had been forced to send Dr. Hern on something of a wild goose chase in order to copy Illya's initial conditioning and the attempts at deconditioning. The tapes whirred to a stop and he quickly removed them.

He had just hidden them in his briefcase when the door opened and Dr. Hern came in. "Any luck?" he asked, clearing the evidence of the download.

She frowned. "I just spent two hours lookin' for somethin' that doesn't exist, Thom," she said, her drawl pronounced. "You sure you had the right file numbers?"

Sherrill locked his briefcase and smiled. "I'm sure they were, Julianna, but you know how easily things are lost. Especially in records." He paused at the door. "I'll check my files again and let you know. Thanks for trying, though."

The door closed behind him and Julianna picked up the original memo, crushed it into a ball, and took a shot at the wastebasket. "Y'all do that Thom," she said, glaring at the door. "Like Emie says, 'I live to serve.'"

* * *

Emerson stirred and stretched. She was always amazed at what a drink, lunch, a shower, and a nap could do for her outlook on life. The baby kicked and stretched, too.

"Back off, you little bugger," she laughed, patting the lumps that moved across her belly. "I've still got five days before I have to deal with you." She climbed out of bed and dressed.

"Who you talking to?" Charlie asked, grinning at her friend.

Emerson brushed her belly and grinned. "This little monster," she said, rubbing the small of her back. "He finally settled and let me sleep, but he's very active right now. I'm afraid of what this means once he's out!"

Charlie laughed and perched on the unmade hospital bed. "Dr. Marxer's here. Want to meet her?"

"Absolutely," Emerson said, pulling Charlie off the bed and pushing her out the door. "What's she like?"

Charlie slowed her pace. "Small, blonde/silver hair, light blue eyes. She's sharp." She grinned at Emerson. "You'll like her. I'm thinking that you have some of the same gene pool."

"What makes you say that?"

"She's a pushy broad, too." Charlie hurried ahead, avoiding Emerson's playful slap.

"Takes one to know one!" Emerson rounded the corner and came face-to-face with Alexander Waverly.

"I had hoped for more professionalism, Agent Cates," he said, struggling with the smile that threatened to overwhelm his craggy face. Emerson stood tall and smoothed her jacket. She leaned toward her boss.

"I don't think that you can handle the extraordinary amount of professionalism contained in this body," she whispered. "There's two of us in here, you know."

Waverly lost the battle and chuckled at her. "Come. I will introduce you to Dr. Marxer."

The door to Illya's room opened and Emerson saw him setting up in bed in the midst of a very spirited chess match.

"Vy - ochen' umnyj protivnik, doktor Ker''akin," (You are a very clever opponent, Mr. Kuryakin).

"Kak - Vy, gospozha." (As are you, madam) A shy smile stole across his face. "YA polagayu, chto eto - vasha ochered'." (I believe that it is your turn)

Dr. Marxer considered her options and, after a few minutes, made her move. Illya countered. "Nanesite porazheniye!" (Defeat!) he said, clearly pleased with himself.

BeBe tipped her queen and smiled. "I cede, Mr. Kuryakin," she said, switching to English. "It seems we have visitors."

Illya brightened. "Em! This is Dr. Beatrix Marxer." Emerson extended her hand.

"An honor and a privilege, Dr. Marxer," she said, smiling at her husband. "You have my gratitude."

BeBe waved her hands dismissively. "I have yet to do anything, Mrs. Kuryakin," she said, taking the measure of the young woman. "I have merely chatted with your husband and lost a chess match. Not much for which to be grateful." Emerson smiled and glanced at Illya.

"Not very gracious of you, Cossack," she said, moving the chess set away.

Illya frowned. "I am a competitor, Em. You would have me loose?" He shook his head. "That would be dishonest!"

"You sound like Nicky," she said, squeezing onto the bed and leaning into his arm. "I should be worried about that kid."

Dr. Marxer settled into the recliner and smiled at the exchange between the two. "If I may be so bold, Mrs. Kuryakin, when is your baby due?"

Emerson grinned. "Please, call me Emerson. The baby's due this coming Sunday. July 19."

"Congratulations to you both," she said, watching Illya's face. "Is this your first baby?"

Illya smiled and shook his head. "We have four children," he explained. "Anushka and Tasha are my nieces, now our daughters, and we have twins, Tatianna and Nicholas." Illya lifted the framed photograph and handed it to BeBe.

"Beautiful," she said, admiring the family. "You must be very proud … and tired!" The two women chuckled.

"I'm blessed," Emerson said, taking the photograph. "We have good help at home, a nanny/governess and a housekeeper/cook. I'd never make it without them."

Illya looked petulant. "Am I not a helpful father, Em?"

She brushed his blond hair and kissed his cheek. "The best Papa ever … when you're around, that is." They exchanged a dark look.

"My apologies for bringing up an uncomfortable subject," BeBe said, making a mental note to speak to Waverly. "I can only imagine how difficult this has been for both of you."

The three fell silent for a moment until Emerson scooted off the bed. "I've got work to do, Kuryakin," she said, squeezing his hand. "Some of us aren't allowed to lie around doing nothing. I'll see you at dinner." She smiled and took Dr. Marxer's hand. "I'm very happy to know you, Dr. Marxer. Thank you for your help."

"Please, Emerson," the older woman said, smiling into Emerson's blue eyes, "call me BeBe. And, as I said, I haven't help just yet."

Emerson paused at the door. "Perhaps not, BeBe, but I expect that you will. And, call me Em."

The door closed behind her.

* * *

Napoleon found Charlie in her office peering at an x-ray. A frown creased her face.

"Keep that up and you'll get wrinkles," he said, lacing his arms around her waist and kissing her neck.

"You'll love me any way," she said, pulling a magnifying glass from her pocket and zeroing in on the film.

"Whose head?" he asked.

"Illya's."

"Find something?"

"No. That's the problem," she answered, turning in his arms and kissing him. "There's no structural anomalies. None. Zip. Nada."

"What were you expecting, Charlie, a tumor, or something?" She slipped from his arms and went to her desk.

"With the number of times he's been nailed, the number of concussions he's suffered, I thought there might be something … something concrete that might explain the seizures."

"So, what's your next best guess?" he asked, grateful that she was taking care of his partner.

"Chemistry," she said, pulling out a lab report. "But, there's nothing here, either." She brushed a curl from her forehead. "This one's a real pisser, Solo."

"What's your plan, Dr. Charles?" he asked, grinning at her.

"Dr. Harry Young."

"Don't know him," Napoleon said, pouring a cup of coffee with the consistency of burned motor oil. "How old is this coffee, Charlie?"

"Made it yesterday … I think," she answered, laughing at the look on his face. "And, be grateful that you don't know Harry. He's the best head cracker I know."

"I take it you mean neurosurgeon," Napoleon said, shuddering at the coffee and her choice of phrase.

"Right. Sorry. Harry was a clinical professor when I was in med school," she said, returning her attention to the film. "He'll be pissed at this, probably order an angiogram just to confirm my findings."

"Illya won't like that."

"I can guarantee that Illya won't like Harry, either, but I can't help that," she said, leaning against her desk. "Two of the smartest men I've ever met, Illya and Harry. This should be worthy of armed guards." She grinned at Napoleon. "Think you can help me out with that, Mr. CEA?"

"I'm the only guard you'll ever need, Dr. Charles," he said, kissing her. She chuckled.

"Geeze, I feel safer already." She pushed him away. "Get out of here, Solo. Some of us work for a living." She collected Illya's records, snatched the x-ray from the view box, and breezed out the door.

Napoleon laughed.

* * *

Angelique parked in front of Del Floria's and got out of her car. She lounged on the hood and waited. She didn't wait long.

"Napasha," she purred as Napoleon jogged up the steps. He stopped and straightened his tie.

"Angelique."

She slid off the car and into his arms. "I'm concerned about our dour, little Russian," she said, brushing her fingers across Napoleon's lapels, smiling at him through thick lashes. "I heard that he's been having problems."

Napoleon pushed her away and glared. "He's fine. This was a long assignment and he was injured, or have you forgotten?"

She smiled. "How could I forget, mon cher? It was I who saved his dour little life, remember?"

"Get back in your car and go create chaos elsewhere, Angelique," he said, turning and walking away.

"I thought we might have a drink, darling," she said, to his retreating back. "My treat."

He paused and turned to face her. "Not today, Angelique. I have errands to run."

"Picking up your dry cleaning, darling? Do you mean to tell me that Del Floria's doesn't deliver?"

"No, Angelique," he said, his fingers toying with his hair. "My wife's asked me to pick up a gallon of milk and a loaf of bread. Just like Jim Anderson and 'Father Knows Best.'

Angelique opened her car door and frowned. "Dreary little family. Dreary little show." She blew a kiss toward Napoleon. "Ciao, darling."

* * *

Emerson joined Illya for dinner, enjoying the relative quiet.

"How are the children?" he asked, slicing into his steak.

"Rotten, as always. They're eager for you to come home."

"I am eager, too," he said, loading his fork with baked potato and spearing a piece of steak. He chewed thoughtfully. "Have they any idea what has happened?"

"I don't think that they're quite ready for the 'Darlings, Papa is a spy,' story," she said, refilling the wine glasses. "Maybe before they're in their twenties."

Illya laughed. "How will we tell them, Em? How does one explain this sort of work?"

She shrugged. "Honesty, I would think, is the best policy. We'll just tell them that both of their parents kill people for a living. But, only the bad guys." She grimaced.

"Are you in pain, Em?" His blue eyes darkened with concern and he reached for the call button.

"No. I'm fine," she answered, grabbing his hand. "He's kicking me, the little bugger!"

"You are not in labor?" he asked, cradling her hand in his.

"Not yet." She stood and stretched. "I'm not having this kid until you're out of here."

"I do not believe that labor conducts itself in that fashion," he said, lacing his arm around her as she perched on the arm of his chair.

"Damn scientist," she murmured, burying her face in his hair. "God, I've missed you!"

He rested his head on her belly smiling as the baby moved beneath it. "I have missed so much, Em. So very much." He raised his face and looked at her. "I am sorry."

Her fingers silenced him. "Don't say it, Nikala. We can't afford 'sorry' in this relationship." She grinned evilly. "Of course, if you ever wreck my 'Vette you'd better be more than sorry."

* * *

Thomas Sherrill parked his car in the warehouse and grabbed his briefcase. It was time to prepare for the arrival of his star patient. He entered the freight elevator and rode three floors to the sub-basement.

The heavy doors opened to reveal a complete medical facility. Broad hallways painted bright white led to exam rooms, a surgical suite, patient rooms, labs, and offices. The exterior of the seemingly abandoned warehouse gave no suggestion of what lay below. He smiled, pleased that UNCLE would never discover the plan in time and, probably never.

He opened the door to an exam room and flipped open his briefcase. In minutes, the computer tapes were in place and he ran a diagnostic on the new computer, checking connections and printers.

"Are you ready, Sherrill?" Angelique asked. Sherrill started at the sound of her voice.

"I would appreciate it, Angelique, if you would stop sneaking up on me! It is most disconcerting!" He straightened his tie and reached for his lab coat.

"Sorry, darling," she said, leaning against the computer and lighting a cigarette. "We are on schedule?"

Sherrill frowned at the cigarette smoke. "I would prefer that you not smoke around the computer. This is very sensitive equipment."

She waved the smoke away from the device and glared. "Answer the question, Sherrill. Are we on schedule?"

"Yes, Angelique. We are on schedule. I will deliver Mr. Kuryakin tomorrow evening."

Angelique walked to the door, blowing smoke into his face. "Don't fuck this up, Sherrill. I want him healthy and alive, at least as long as it takes to retrieve the information. After that …" She shrugged and smiled at him. "After that, well, let's just say that what remains of Kuryakin is your problem."

Sherrill hoped that she didn't take note of the shudder that coursed his body. She was one cold bitch. "Should Mr. Kuryakin survive the process we will allow UNCLE to 'rescue' him, though I doubt there very much of his brain will remain intact." He checked the drug cabinet and smiled at the contents. "In the event of his death I have made arrangement to have his body cremated. UNCLE will never know what happened."

Angelique's eyebrows rose in surprise. "I am impressed, Thom," she said, a feral smile on her lips. "I had no idea that you are so ruthless. It will serve us well." She opened the door and paused. "Until tomorrow then." The door closed behind her.

Sherrill chuckled. "Thomas Sherrill described as 'ruthless'," he said aloud. "Take that, Alexander Waverly!"

* * *

Friday morning Dr. Harry Young arrived and met with Charlie and Dr. Marxer. He spent an hour talking with Illya and then returned to his colleagues.

"Charlie, I don't see any reason for an angiogram. The lab results, x-rays, and my own exam of Mr. Kuryakin lead me to agree with your findings," Dr. Young said, tapping his pen on Illya's files. "Although I do find evidence of rather recent concussive trauma, I find no indications of lesions or psuedo-lesions."

Dr. Marxer nodded in agreement. "You concur that this is chemically induced seizure activity, then. Perhaps a combination of the conditioning he received in this facility and that which was added at a later time?"

"While I can't categorically prove it, that's my best guess," Young said, smiling at Charlie. "Here's my suggestion, Charlie. Order more exhaustive blood work and another lumbar puncture. What we're looking for is there. We just have to find it."

Charlie ran her hand through her curly, dark hair. "My lab team is among the best, Harry, but I don't think they can manage this." She glanced at her colleagues. "Suggestions?"

Harry pushed back and rested his long legs on Charlie's desk. "Dr. Melissa Allenton. She's doing cutting edge research in brain chemistry. I'd be happy to call her and, she's in Jersey, at Rutgers."

Charlie rose and walked to the coffee pot. "Do it. I want the results yesterday."

* * *

Emerson arrived in Alexander Waverly's office at 1 p.m. for a meeting with the medical staff and an update on Illya. Spending the night at home in her own bed had infused her with new energy and she was eager for some good news. The door slid open revealing the huge round desk surrounded by at least two new faces.

"Agent Cates," Waverly said, rising as she entered, "please be seated. "This is Dr. Harry Young, a neurosurgeon called in by Dr. Charles." Emerson nodded to him. "And, this is Dr. Melissa Allenton, a researcher in brain chemistry from Rutgers." Emerson smiled at the tall young woman.

"Missy comes highly recommended, Em," Charlie said, turning to her friend. "She's ordered a new round of blood work and Harry will do a lumbar puncture as soon as we leave here. Once that's completed, Missy will get started on some very sensitive lab work."

Emerson frowned. "Illya's already had a zillion blood tests, Charlie, and at least two punctures. What makes you think that you'll find something conclusive?"

"If I may, Dr. Charles," Dr. Allenton said, turning her attention to Emerson. "My work involves very specific and sensitive assays that should, I emphasize 'should', reveal the chemical trigger to Mr. Kuryakin's seizure disorder." She glanced at the thick files before her. "Having reviewed the work already done, I am convinced that what we're looking for is hiding in plain sight. We simply need to refine the technique."

"Assuming that you will find the cause, how will you address it?" Emerson asked, her eyes seeking Charlie's face. "What if there's no 'cure', so to speak?"

Waverly raised his hand. "We'll deal with that once we have the answer."

"My goal is to discover the chemical trigger and then develop an antidote. One that we can introduce via IV therapy," Dr. Allenton said, folding her large hands in her lap. "I'll be working in your labs with colleagues from Rutgers."

Dr. Marxer reached for Emerson's hand. "I can see how difficult this is for you, my dear," she said. "But, you are a woman of faith, are you not? We have gathered the best of the best to work on this problem and I have faith that we will succeed."

Emerson smiled. "My apologies. I am _supposed_ to be a woman of faith, but this, all of this, has tested me sorely." She rose and leaned on the desk. "If there is anything that I can do to help you, say the word."

Dr. Young grinned. "When's the baby due?"

Emerson rested her hand on her huge belly. "Sunday."

"This Sunday?" Young asked, his eyes huge. "Good God woman, you should be in hospital!"

Charlie laughed. "Not this one, Harry. She's as block headed as you are." She grinned at Emerson. "Go home, Em. Get some rest, unless you want to be a lab rat."

Emerson shook her head and chuckled. "That's Illya's venue, not mine." Dr. Marxer rose and embraced her. "Pray, Emerson," she whispered.

"Without ceasing," Emerson said, as the door closed behind her.

* * *

Illya blamed his near exhaustion on the minions from Physical Therapy. Even though his leg was still in an unwieldy cast, he was forced to endure their sadistic ministrations. He ate dinner alone, took his meds, and turned out the lights. In mere minutes, he was deeply asleep.

Charlie joined Napoleon for a late supper at Del Vecchio's, grateful for a break from medical.

"How's he doing?" Napoleon asked, tossing the salad.

"Who?" Charlie asked, sipping her wine.

Napoleon rolled his eyes. "You know who!"

"Oh, Blondie," she answered, grinning. "I do have more than one patient to attend to, you know."

Napoleon chuckled. "True enough, but he's the only one I'm interested in at the moment."

She grinned. "He's doing well. No additional seizure activity, which is very good. And, he's complaining about the PT staff."

"He's back to normal," Napoleon said as the waiter delivered dessert.

* * *

Emerson finished her second martini, treating herself to an extra round after completing the bedtime routine. She clicked off the lights and headed to bed. Tomorrow there would be another attempt at deprogramming with Drs. Young and Marxer attending as well as Charlie and Dr. Allenton.

She snuggled into bed hugging Illya's pillow. "I love you, moj vozl'ublennyj." (My beloved) she whispered as sleep claimed her.

* * *

Angelique stood in the sally port tapping the toe of her designer shoe impatiently.

"Do not be impatient, my dear," Eligeus Trap cautioned, checking his watch. "It is barely 9:30. You do not expect Dr. Sherrill until 10, correct?"

Angelique frowned at her superior. "I want this over with, Trap. I want Kuryakin and what's in his brain." She shrugged. "I've got everything in place to replicate the research quickly. We should be able to launch by January."

Trap shook his gray head and grinned. "You are ambitious, dear Angelique. There are men who would find that trait offensive in a woman."

Her lovely face dissolved into a sneer. "With respect, Trap, fuck 'em. I know what I want and I know how to get it. And, I know plenty of men who find me more than a little attractive."

"Including Mr. Solo?"

She laughed loudly. "Especially Mr. Solo."

* * *

Thomas Sherrill walked through the halls of medical pleased to see that things were quiet. He slipped into Illya's room and prepared for the next phase of 'Plan B.'

* * *

Charlie and Napoleon lingered over coffee, enjoying their uninterrupted time together.

"I'm telling Waverly that Illya's not to be given such an assignment again," she said, her fingers absently tapping the table top.

"What makes you think that he'll agree with you, Charlie?" Napoleon asked, his hand stilling hers. "If Illya's the best choice for an assignment, then he'll send him."

Charlie shook her head. "He can't withstand another programming like this one, Napasha." She sighed and looked into his brown eyes. "I'm afraid for him, even now."

"Now you know why Section 2 agents were never allowed to marry or have long term relationships. It's too damn hard on everyone involved."

She withdrew her hand and frowned. "Having second thoughts, Solo?" she asked, an edge in her voice.

Napoleon shook his head and smiled at her. "Never, Charlie. There are few women, or men for that matter, who could handle being married to one of us. You're one and Em's the other, and I say that only because you're on the inside of UNCLE. When the first 'innocent' marries an agent is when the shit hits the fan."

"I'm not looking forward to that one, Napasha," she said, finishing her coffee. "I doubt that you are, either."

He shrugged. "Can't worry about what hasn't happened … yet." He glanced at his watch. "I'm heading home; want to join me, Mrs. Solo?"

"Best offer I've had all day," she said, linking her arm in his. "Does this mean that you're planning on sleeping in the same bed with me?"

Napoleon chuckled and took her in his arms. "First things first," he said, tipping her face and kissing her.

"Hurry up with the first thing, Solo. I'm eager for the big finish!"

* * *

Dr. Sherrill carefully awakened his star patient.

"Illya," he said softly, lightly touching the Russian's shoulder. Illya opened bleary eyes and tried to focus on the voice.

"Dr. Sherrill?"

"Yes, Illya, it's Dr. Sherrill. We think that we've found something in one of the tests we've already done. Something has shown up in an x-ray. We want to investigate further."

Illya sat up slowly and frowned at Sherrill. "Where is Dr. Charles?"

Sherrill shook his head. "Even the good doctor needs some time away, Illya. She's at dinner with Mr. Solo."

"She is aware of your findings?"

Sherrill nodded and pointed toward a wheelchair. "If you'll get into the wheelchair we'll have the new tests done and then you can rest." Sherrill took Illya's arm and helped him stand, hanging the IV bags on the wheelchair. Illya settled in and Sherrill covered him with a light blanket. "Won't do for you to catch a chill," the doctor said, wheeling Illya to the door.

The halls were empty as they waited for the elevator. "Where are we going?" Illya asked as Sherrill pushed the chair into the car.

"Research and development, medical subsection," Sherrill answered, standing behind Illya and selecting a button. "They've developed a new device that they're calling a 'scanner'. It allows us to visualize the brain by taking pictures … sort of x-ray's … in slices."

"Have you shown this new device to Dr. Young?" Illya asked, barely stifling a yawn. "I am certain that he would be most intrigued by this discovery."

Sherrill grinned as he sorted the IV tubing. "He is excited about it. He tells me that it will revolutionize brain surgery, making it easier to identify and define lesions before attempting surgery." Sherrill injected the tubing and glanced at his watch. Illya would be dozing before they reached the parking garage.

* * *

Napoleon wrapped himself in his light cotton robe and sauntered into the bedroom. Charlie lay on the king size bed, the damp curls of her hair making a dark halo around her beautiful face.

"I'm ready for second things," she said, leering at her husband. He crawled across the bed and into her arms. "I've missed you, Napasha," she whispered, her hands burrowing beneath his robe.

"Second things, uh?" he asked, his fingers finding an already erect nipple. He grinned at her. "I'd say we're moving rapidly toward third things."

She tugged off his robe and ran her fingers across the muscled plains of his back. "Hell, Solo," she said, her voice husky with desire, "I'm ready for a bases loaded, grand slam, homerun."

His knee separated her willing thighs and he lifted her ass as he entered her. He moaned as his cock pushed deeply within her, beneath the mound of dark hair and between the reddening lips of her labia. "You are so tight," he whispered, his mouth sucking at her neck.

"Don't talk Napasha," she breathed, her fingers knotted in his hair. Her hips moved in rhythm with his thrusts and she arched her back against him. "Show me what you've got."

He rose above her and slipped his legs beneath hers, pulling her up until she faced him. Charlie leaned against his chest feeling the pounding of his heart against her. "Um, Napasha," she murmured, moving her hips and taking him even more deeply within. "Your reputation is well deserved."

He pulled her closer, thrusting against her, leaning down to capture her breast and scattering kissed across her chest. "I have no reputation," he groaned, feeling his balls rise even as the muscles of her vagina tightened around him.

She chuckled. "You're right … oh, God … " Her orgasm choked her words and her head fell back against her shoulders. He smiled at the pink blush that colored her belly and breasts. His mouth tasted the salty sweetness of her sweat laden skin. Gathering her into his arms, he followed her into the throes of pleasure.

They lay in a tangle of arms and legs, breath coming in short, tortured bursts. He buried his face in her hair and felt the trembling of her body that matched his own. After what seemed an eternity and the blink of an eye, he withdrew slowly, they lay together enjoying the feel of sweat slicked skin, and the slow return to something akin to sanity.

"I love you, Charlie," he said, his voice soft and low in her ear. "I love you."

"Only because I'm a good lay, Solo," she answered, her cheek tucked into the hollow of his shoulder. "You're _so_ fucking easy."

He laughed and slapped her ass playfully. "We've got to do this more often. Your pillow talk needs a little work."

"I've never had any complaints about my 'pillow talk', as you call it," she said, pushing away from him and working very hard at a glare.

"I've never been called 'easy' by any of my bed partners," he said, adopting a wounded expression. "I've been called adorable, thoughtful, sexy, pleasurable …"

She silenced him with a kiss. "You, my little sex machine, are all those things and more." Her fingers traced the valley of his spine and massaged the firm curve of his ass. "You've got a fabulous ass, Napasha."

His laughter bubbled up and spilled delightfully into her ear. "Your pillow talk is improving, my love."

"See, I'm a quick study, too," she answered, nibbling at his neck. "And, you _are_ easy."

His brown eyes captured her dark blue ones. "Only because you are so enticing."

"Ah, there's nothing like being called enticing by a man who's been enticed by some of the most beautiful and beguiling women in the world." She smiled, her eyes glittering with love. "I love you, Napasha. Heart and soul."

"Heart and soul, baby," he said, pulling the sheet to cover them. "Heart and soul."

* * *

Angelique opened the passenger door of the dark sedan and stepped aside, allowing the two burly orderlies to pull Illya onto a gurney. His blue eyes opened slowly and squinted against the bright fluorescent lights of the sally port.

"What have you done to him?" she demanded, glaring at Sherrill.

"He's lightly sedated, Angelique," Sherrill said, tightening the straps that held Illya securely to the gurney. "It wouldn't do to have Illya Kuryakin, even in this debilitated state, decide to fight his way out of a moving car."

Trap looked at Sherrill and chuckled dementedly. "He's smarter than you give him credit for, my dear." He patted Illya's hand and smiled crookedly. "Let's get started." They followed the gurney onto the elevator.

"Is everything prepared?" Sherrill asked, taking Illya's pulse and nodding.

"Of course," Angelique answered, giving him a look that questioned his intelligence. "We were simply awaiting your arrival." Illya moaned softly as the gurney left the elevator.

"Be still, my dour, little Russian," Angelique murmured, watching him closely. "We'll be finished with you in just a little while."

"Home," Illya whispered, closing his eyes against the blur of the lights as the gurney sped down the hallway. "Home."

"Soon, moye dorogoye (my dear)," she said, pushing open the lab doors.

Sherrill secured Illya's head to the gurney and seated the headphones. One orderly hung the IV bags while the other set up the cardiac monitor. Sherrill attached EEG leads and established a baseline reading. "Dim the lights," he ordered.

Angelique dimmed the lights and pulled a lab stool to Illya's side. Sherrill frowned.

"You shouldn't be here," he said, his voice thick with derision.

"Why not, Sherrill? I'm the one who implanted the secondary conditioning. I should be here to monitor the deconditioning, don't you think?" She frowned at him. "You do your job, and I'll do mine."

Sherrill looked to Trap for support. "Sir, I do not believe that it will be helpful to the process to have Miss DuChein in such proximity to Mr. Kuryakin."

Trap shrugged his bony shoulders. "I can't see that Mr. Kuryakin is aware of much of anything, Dr. Sherrill, much less being aware of Miss DuChein's presence." He smiled at Angelique who offered a little pout. "Should that change, then we will ask her to move to the observation deck." The door closed behind the small, bent man.

Sherrill seemed prepared to object, but he read the expression on Trap's gaunt, gray face and relented. He glared at Angelique. "We will begin, but …"

Angelique nodded. "If things change I will excuse myself, Sherrill." She waved a manicured hand in his face. "Get on with it!" Trap appeared above them on the observation deck.

Sherrill flipped a switch to activate the computer tapes and another to trigger the film and audio recording devices. Angelique moved a procedure tray into place and handed off the first of several filled syringes.

"Give this first," she ordered, watching Sherrill examine the syringe jadedly. "It will begin to clear whatever you've given him." Sherrill injected the drug and watched as Illya opened his eyes, but seemed unaware of his surroundings. Angelique chose a second syringe. "This will relax him and make him more susceptible to suggestion." Sherrill injected the fluid. "Now, give it a few minutes and he'll be ready." She perched on the lab stool and took Illya's hand. Sherrill jotted notes on a clipboard.

"I hardly think we need to keep a chart, Sherrill," Angelique said, chuckling at him.

Sherrill turned his back to her. "I am a medical professional and I will act as such, Miss DuChein."

"Of course you are, Dr. Sherrill," she said, sarcasm thick in her voice. "The consummate medical professional who has kidnapped his patient and is about to begin a procedure that may well render him a blithering idiot, if not kill him." Sherrill stiffened at her words, but he did not respond.

She caressed Illya's forearm and smiled at him. "What is it Hippocrates said, moye dorogoye?" she asked. "Ah, yes. 'First, do no harm.'"

Sherrill sighed softly and turned to his patient.

* * *

Emerson came to consciousness slowly, her brain trying to identify the annoying noise so near her head. _Communicator. Answer the communicator!_

"Cates!" she said, suddenly and fully awake.

"Get dressed, Em," Napoleon ordered.

"What's happened?" she asked, tugging on trousers even while she shed her oversized t-shirt. "Is Illya all right?"

"Em, it's Charlie. We don't know, but Dr. Young just called and wants us ASAP."

"I'll meet you in the hall." She glanced at the alarm clock that read 11 p.m.

The ride to headquarters was quiet, filled with buttoning, tying, and silent worry.

Emerson leaned into the backseat and ran her hands over her face. "What do you mean 'Illya's missing'?" she asked.

"Dr. Young stopped in to check on Illya before he went to his apartment. His room is empty, IV bags and all, and, a wheelchair was found in the garage," Charlie said, resting her hand on Emerson's.

"Well, he sure as hell didn't walk out of medical," Emerson said, watching the street lamps fly past.

Napoleon frowned. "We believe that Thomas Sherrill took him."

"Sherrill?" Emerson asked her eyes wide with surprise. "Why?"

"We don't know, yet," Napoleon answered, straightening his tie.

"Why would he take him? If he wanted to harm him … kill him …" Emerson stopped, afraid of this line of reasoning. "I'll kill the bastard with my own hands."

"You'll have to stand in line," Napoleon said, reaching for the door handle even as the car pulled to a stop.

* * *

Medical was crawling with agents from Section 2 and Section 3. An evidence team combed Illya's room. Staff was systematically interviewed. Napoleon went to Communications to review security tapes. Charlie took Emerson to her office and poured coffee.

"I want you to stay put," Charlie said, handing Emerson a mug of steaming, jet black coffee.

"Charlie!"

"Don't argue with me, Em. We've got enough to deal with without you going in to labor."

"This kid's staying put until Illya's here," Emerson said, patting her belly. "Anyway, the little bugger's asleep at the moment and I want to know what's going on."

Charlie rolled her eyes. "Humor me, Em, just this once. Please."

Emerson stood up and paced the small office. "I can't just sit here and do nothing, Charlie. You can't really expect me to do that, can you?"

The office door opened and Charlie stepped into the hall. "Stay where you are. I'll keep you informed." The door closed and Emerson sat quietly, illuminated by the spare light of Charlie's desk lamp.

She closed her eyes. "Valley of the shadow," she said softly.

* * *

Angelique watched the monitors, pleased that Illya's vitals were stable, solidly so.

"He's doing well, isn't he?" she asked Sherrill.

He glanced at the monitors and nodded. "We've tried this twice. He's always stable until we get to whatever you did to him. Then, he crashes."

"Get started, Sherrill. When you reach that point I have another drug that will stabilize him and keep him stable."

Sherrill watched the beautiful blonde caress Illya's hand and listened to her speak to him in Russian.

"Illyusha," she said softly, "Vy imeyete informaciyu, v kotoroj ya nuzhdayus', informaciya, chto ya znayu, chto Vy imeyete. Tol'ko rasslab'tes', moye dorogoye, i otvet'te na moi voprosy." (Illyusha, you have information that I need, information that I know you have. Just relax, my dear, and answer my questions.)

Sherrill hated himself for being impressed with her, hated himself for finding her so attractive. He scribbled more notes on the clip board. He had convinced himself that it wasn't just the money that had brought him to this place with this woman. It was the opportunity, the chance, to do cutting edge research into mind control. Research that UNCLE should have been willing to fund if it wasn't for Waverly and his archaic rules. He tapped his ink pen on the clipboard, lost in thought. He recalled his meeting with Waverly not long after Illya had been rescued.

"Dr. Sherrill, while I appreciate your interest in this field of research, I do not approve of it and will not fund it," Waverly had said, turning his back on the doctor.

"Sir, with respect, investigating mind control techniques is critical to the future of espionage," Sherrill had argued, pointing to the reams of research he had brought to his boss. "If we can learn to manage deep programming, of our own agents and the enemy, we can open new avenues. Intelligence gathering and interrogation will never be the same!"

Waverly had frowned, shaking his head. "This is the sort of thing that THRUSH, the CIA, the KGB would do, not UNCLE. This line of research does not compliment the ethos of UNCLE. I will not permit it."

Sherrill had been furious at the old man, but contained it and masked his face. He collected the research folders and walked to the door. "I understand, sir, my apologies for taking your time."

_Stupid old man_, Sherrill thought, watching the monitors as Illya's vitals began a slow decline. Angelique noted it, too. She pressed a second syringe into Sherrill's hand.

"Give him this," she ordered. "Now."

Sherrill paused, the needle hovering over the IV tubing. "You realize, Angelique, that if this doesn't work he will suffer irreparable brain damage. He may even die."

Angelique sneered at the doctor. "Give him the drug, Sherrill, or I will. What happens to him after this is finished isn't my concern."

Sherrill took a deep breath, pushed the contents of the syringe into the tubing, and waited.

* * *

"Report, Mr. Solo," Alexander Waverly ordered, standing in the doorway of Illya's empty hospital room.

"Dr. Sherrill took Illya, sir," Napoleon said, hating the fact that he had so little to report. "We believe that he fabricated some story to get Illya to cooperate and then sedated him. The security footage shows Sherrill placing Illya in his car and driving out of the garage."

"I see," Waverly said, walking around the hospital room. "What else have you found, Mr. Solo?"

Napoleon leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. "Sherrill drives a car issued by UNCLE which means it has a homing device. We're attempting to trace it now."

Waverly stopped next to his CEA. "You understand the gravity of the situation, Mr. Solo?" he asked, his pale blue eyes locking onto Napoleon. "Mr. Kuryakin must be retrieved before Sherrill succeeds in liberating whatever information is buried in his brain."

"Yes, sir," Napoleon answered, knowing what his boss would next say.

The old man took a deep, ragged breath and pulled his pipe from his coat pocket. "Mr. Kuryakin is expendable, although I would rather not sacrifice his life unless absolutely necessary." His gnarled fingers unzipped his pocket humidor and packed the bowl of the pipe. "Should you discover that Mr. Kuryakin has been compromised, that the information has been retrieved, you are to end the process immediately, do you understand?"

Napoleon winced at the coldness of his boss' words. "Is this a sanction order, sir?"

The flame of Waverly's match illuminated his wrinkled face now pulled into a frown. He stared out the window and blew a stream of blue-gray smoke into the air. "Much to my dismay, Mr. Solo, the answer is yes. This is a sanction order, if you deem it necessary." The old man walked away, leaving Napoleon to consider what his boss might define as 'necessary'.

He pushed away from the wall and squared his shoulders. _I'll consider this professional discretion._ He pulled his Walther P-38 from its holster and chambered a round. This was no assignment for darts.

* * *

Emerson paced Charlie's office, checking the wall clock every few seconds. She walked to the door and peered down the hallway. The evidence team had gone, leaving only Section 3 agents to guard the remaining patient rooms. Staff had reappeared after questioning looking drawn and shaken. Just as Emerson ventured into the hall, Charlie appeared.

"Emerson!" she said, anger coloring her voice. "What is it about 'stay put' that you don't understand?"

Emerson pushed past her friend. "I 'stayed put', Charlie," she said, walking toward Illya's room. "Now, I'm not. I've got to know what's going on."

She rounded the corner and stopped in front of Alexander Waverly. "Where is he?"

Waverly sighed and took her arm. "I want you to come with me, Emie," he said, adopting his most fatherly tone of voice. "You may wait in my study and I will keep you informed."

She did not move. "Tell me what is going on." Her voice was hard and flat.

Waverly frowned. "I will order you into custody, if you do not cooperate with me," he said, his face inches from hers. "Do not test me on this." She walked with him to the elevator.

"How the hell could this happen, Alexander?" she asked, leaning against the wall of the elevator. "How the hell did Sherrill manage it?"

Waverly puffed on his pipe. "UNCLE does not operate in the fashion of Thrush, Emie," he said, watching the elevator make its ascent. "We trust one another. We had no reason to suspect that Dr. Sherrill had turned and, therefore, had no reason to suspect that he was a threat to Mr. Kuryakin."

She shook her head, willing the tears of frustration that threatened to fall away. "I should have suspected the bastard," she said, her voice choked with emotion. "Illya never trusted him."

Waverly offered a rueful smile. "Mr. Kuryakin does not have a high opinion of the medical staff, with the possible exception of Dr. Charles. And, I might add, you had no supportable reason to distrust him, either."

Emerson pushed away from the wall as the elevator doors opened. "Maybe not supportable, Alexander," she said, walking ahead of her boss and friend, "but I ignored my gut instinct, and that's cost us dearly."

Waverly followed her toward his office. "While one should honor one's 'gut instinct' as you so delicately term it, one should never allow it free rein in decision making." He ushered her into his study, poured two glasses of Scotch, and added ice. "People die when that happens."

Emerson kicked off her shoes and stretched out on the couch bracing her back against the thickly padded arm. She took a long sip of the whiskey and fixed her eyes on him. "Sometimes, Alexander, people die because they ought to."

He settled into his leather wing chair and nodded. "Sometimes, Emie, but not this time." He flipped a toggle switch and pulled the microphone into place. "Report, Mr. Solo."

Static filled the connection briefly. "We are in route to the last known coordinates for Sherrill's car. It's somewhere in the warehouse district."

"You do not have an exact location, Mr. Solo?"

"No, sir. It appears that the signal from the transponder is being blocked or shielded. I have several teams of agents canvassing the area now."

"The entire personnel roster of Sections 2 and 3 are at your disposal, Mr. Solo," Waverly said, watching Emerson chase an ice cube around her old fashion glass. "Whom do you have with you?"

"Agents Slate and Dancer," Napoleon answered. "Agents Wilson and Ahern are already on scene."

"Very good, Mr. Solo," Waverly said, tapping the contents of his pipe into an ashtray. "Keep me apprised of the situation. And, Mr. Solo, do not forget our previous conversation. Waverly, out."

Emerson's eyes shot up at the last exchange. "You've sanctioned him."

Waverly dropped his pipe in the ashtray and looked away. "Mr. Kuryakin is compromised, Emerson."

Emerson pulled herself to the edge of the couch, slipped on her shoes, and stood up. Rage and pain distorted her face and filled her voice. "For the good of the Command, right Alexander?" She walked to the door and paused. "Go to hell, Mr. Waverly."

The old man watched the door close behind her and he dropped his head into his hands.

* * *

"He's stable," Sherrill said, obviously surprised at the turn of events. "What did you give him?"

Angelique kept her eyes on Illya. "Just a little something cooked up in my own personal lab, Sherrill." She glanced at her watch and stood up.

"Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin," she said, her voice clear and commanding, "you will answer all of my questions honestly and thoroughly. Do you understand?"

Illya wriggled, pulling against the restraints that held him securely to the gurney. "CHestno. Polnost''u," (Honestly. Thoroughly.) he said, his voice flat, almost mechanical.

"Ochen' horoshij, Illyusha," she ordered. "Soobschite obo vsem, chto Vy pomnite o EHD. Nachnite teper'." (Very good, Illyusha. Report everything you remember about the EHD. Begin now.)

Sherrill watched in amazement as Illya began a systematic report on the research project.

Angelique smiled. "Now, you believe me, Sherrill," she said, listening as Illya recited equations, explaining each one in depth. "Now, you see what power I offer to you. If I can do this to Illya Kuryakin, imagine what I can do to UNCLE."

Sherrill shuddered at the thought.

* * *

"Charles," Charlie answered, carrying her communicator down the hall.

"Charlie," Napoleon said, "I want air evac on stand-by. I'm not sure what we'll find, but I doubt that it'll be good."

"Warming up even as we speak," she answered, stopping at the nursing desk. "Find anything yet? "

"The transmitter signal ended somewhere in this block, so we've got about a half-dozen warehouses to investigate," Napoleon said, closing the car door quietly. "I'll signal you when we're ready."

"Charles, out." Charlie pulled a chart and reviewed it, one more way of staying grounded.

"What's happening?" Emerson asked, joining Charlie at the desk.

Charlie ignored her for a moment. "You're supposed to be with the boss."

"Well, I'm not. I'm here and I've asked you a direct question."

Charlie frowned at her friend. "I've got air evac on stand-by, Em. Napoleon's got six teams investigating." She checked her watch. "It's now 0215 hours and I don't know anything else."

"I'm staying here."

"Emerson Myer Cates Kuryakin," Charlie said quietly. "You are less than 72 hours from your supposed due date. Dr. Schumann tells me that the baby hasn't turned, although, from the looks of you, he has dropped."

Emerson rested her palms on her belly.

"That means you may well go into labor with the baby in breach position. No doubt you remember the fun and games you had with Nicholas, right?"

"Yes, Charlie, I remember."

"So, you'll understand when I tell you that this is no place for you. You're endangering the welfare of your baby. You're endangering your own life." Charlie took her arm and steered her toward the elevator. "Go back to Mr. Waverly and wait. Please."

Emerson stopped and frowned at her friend. "I doubt that he's in any mood to have me as his guest, Charlie."

Charlie sighed. "What did you do, Em?"

"I told him to go to hell."

Charlie chuckled at the thought of anybody telling Alexander Waverly to go to hell and living to tell the tale. "He's not good at following orders, Em," she said, pushing her friend into the elevator and pushing the floor button. "I'm sure that he's right where you left him."

* * *

Napoleon's team of a dozen agents gathered around to receive their assignments. He checked his watch. "Mark the time; 0300 hours."

Napoleon looked into each face, assuring himself that this was the cream of the crop. "Agents Wilson, Ahern, and Slate will be leading individual teams. Your primary assignment is to secure the building and take out whatever resistance you find. I do not want any hostiles left behind to complicate things." The group nodded.

"You have your assignments. Team leaders, leave Channel D open. I've called in the other teams and they will form a perimeter. Questions?"

"No sir," Pete said. "Ready when you are."

Napoleon pressed a small explosive device into the lock of the heavy, steel door and stepped back from the shower of sparks. They entered quietly and fanned out.

* * *

Angelique stood up and circled the room. She was tired; bored of listening to Kuryakin's seemingly endless commentary.

"We've been at this for hours, Sherrill," she said, tapping her blood red nails on the procedure tray. "Let's give him something … something that will make him sleep … and we can eat and stretch our legs." She turned her pretty face and smiled sweetly.

Sherrill wasn't buying. He glared over his glasses at the stunning beautiful woman. "We can not flip a switch and turn him off, Angelique," he said, the glower in his voice matching his face.

She put her arm around his neck and leaned against him. "How did you handle the deprogramming at UNCLE, Thom?" she asked, turning slightly and displaying her breasts to full advantage. "Didn't you have to stop the process twice? He survived that, didn't he?"

Sherrill pulled away, ignoring her high, firm breasts. "I'm not willing to risk his life just to feed you," he snapped. "There were problems with both attempts at deprogramming. The first time his vitals shot up to unacceptable levels. Dr. Charles ended the session after just a few minutes." He glanced at Illya who appeared to be sleeping soundly. "The second time his vitals began a slow but steady drop."

"That's when you injected my drug," Angelique said, returning to her lab stool.

"Yes, Angelique, and he had a grand mal seizure. It took nearly an hour to bring it under control. I'm not willing to risk that."

"Poor Thom," she said, grinning at the doctor, "you simply do not understand the spy game." Angelique toyed with Illya's long hair. "This one does, you see. He's willing to put his life on the line for the likes of you, though I can't understand why."

Sherrill's face colored at her remark. "You seem to think that I do not take risks. That I have no idea of the stakes involved in the 'spy game'." He slammed the clip board on the table and glared at her. Illya flinched at the noise. "My whole and entire life … personal and professional … is on the line here, Angelique. Everything I've ever had or will have is wrapped up in this experiment."

Angelique smiled. "You are so brave, Thom," she said, derision in her voice. "You've given up your paltry little career and bully for you!" She brushed Illya's face with her finger tips. "This man is willing to die for the cause; no matter how ill conceived it might be."

"If you're trying to make me believe that you care one whit for Illya Kuryakin, you can save your breath, Angelique. I may be in this for the money and for the chance to do important research, but I know that you're in this for the power it will bring you."

His cheek burned from the force of the blow. "You are a bastard, Sherrill! If you think that Thrush will trust you, will laud you for what you're doing, you are sadly mistaken. The Council knows you for what you are; a traitor, willing to sell out to the highest bidder." She stepped away from him, admiring the bright red handprint. "I'm going out. Don't fuck this up while I'm gone."

"Bitch," Sherrill, said, watching the door close behind her.

* * *

Alexander Waverly watched Emerson pace his office, wondering how she managed to stand up much less wear a path in his carpet.

"Emie," he said, reaching out to her, "sit down or I will return you to Dr. Charles."

She pulled away. "I wish people would stop telling me what to do!" He could hear the ragged edge of exhaustion in her voice and see it in her face.

"We are concerned for you and for the baby, Emerson." Emerson turned at the sound of Dr. Marxer's soft voice. "Come. Let us retreat to Alex's study. I doubt that you have eaten and you do need to rest." Emerson allowed herself to be led into the study. BeBe Marxer opened the small refrigerator and produced a turkey sandwich and a small bottle of milk. She smiled at Emerson and waved her to the couch. "Get comfortable while I raid the rest of Alex's larder."

Emerson tucked herself into the corner of the sofa and watched the older woman prepare her food. "This is too much, BeBe," Emerson said, taking a bite of the sandwich. "How often do you feed your patients?"

BeBe chuckled and took the opposite end of the couch. "Rarely, my dear. Most of my patents are unconscious or very nearly so." She rested her hands in her lap. "You, however, are a different story." A steely gray eyebrow rose.

Emerson grinned, and it pleased BeBe very much. "Ah, shucks, doc," Emerson said between bites. "I'm just a poor country parson laboring in the vineyard of the Lord."

"_You_ are too much, Emerson," BeBe said, laughing at Emerson's description. "I sincerely doubt that you are any of those things consistently."

Emerson held up her hand. "I am a parson and I do labor in the vineyards of the Lord, though not as often as I used to." She shrugged and grinned. "The poor thing and the country thing … let's just call it poetic license." Emerson yawned and BeBe collected the plate and bottle returning them to the bar.

"How long since you've slept, Emerson?"

Emerson sat for a moment trying to decide what day it was. "Yesterday, I think. Before Illya was taken, anyway."

"I thought as much," BeBe said, pulling a pillow and a light blanket from a drawer. "I want you to lie down for a little while … a little rest."

"I can't rest until he's back," Emerson said, thinking her voice sounded a lot like the kids when they were angling for a later bedtime.

BeBe rested her hand on Emerson's shoulder. "I can imagine what Illya would say to you now, Emerson, can't you?" Emerson sobbed quietly and BeBe sat down and embraced her. "Let it go, Emie," she whispered, her voice tinged with French and German accents. "Let it go."

Emerson allowed herself to be held and rocked like a baby, surprised at how comforting it felt. BeBe blotted her tears with a delicate linen handkerchief and smiled. "That's better, I think." She scooted away and patted her lap. "Put your head in my lap and I'll stay with you until word comes. I promise." Emerson was asleep in seconds.

Alexander Waverly stood in the doorway of his study and smiled. "How did you manage that, BeBe?" he asked, his voice soft and low. He dimmed the lights and helped cover Emerson with the blanket.

"Exhaustion is a powerful thing, Alex. It works not only on the body, but on the spirit, too." She brushed Emerson's hair and smiled. "I play dirty, Alex, you know that. I asked Emie to consider what Illya would want for her. That opened the flood gates, and here we are."

Waverly nodded. "Do you need anything, BeBe?"

"Just some good news, Alex."

* * *

Napoleon and his team moved silently through the hallways of the first and second lower levels of the warehouse, examining every room and darting Thrush guards along the way. There was no sign of Illya.

"He's got to be here," April said frustration thick in her voice.

"He's here," Napoleon said, blowing the lock on a door and pushing it open. April took point and he followed. The team met up at the elevator as Napoleon's ear piece signaled.

"Solo, report."

"The building is secured. We have a two block perimeter," Jack said. "We're available if you need us."

"We're heading to the third level, Jack. Take the stairs and meet us there."

Jack, Pete, and Mark moved soundlessly meeting Napoleon's team as they exited the elevator.

"This appears to be the last sub-level," Napoleon said. "I want every door opened and the room beyond investigated. Dart any low level guards or agents, we'll deal with them later." He glanced at his top agents. "Team up with the junior agents and keep an eye on them. If any team finds upper echelon personnel, I want them held for interrogation. Dart them unless they resist; then use your own judgment." The agents broke into groups and began their search.

Napoleon and April began their search listening to the other team's clear room after room. As they rounded another corner, April grabbed Napoleon's arm and pointed to her ear and then to the left side of the hall. She sprinted ahead.

"Teams on the third sub-level report to halls 3002W at 3002N," Napoleon whispered. "Stage and await further instructions." He crouched and followed April.

"It's the sound, Napoleon," April said, pointing to the next entry, a set of double doors. "Computer tapes." She tried the door and it opened without resistance.

The first room appeared to be an office with desks, telephones, and files. Napoleon rifled the files and kept moving. April slipped ahead, opening a closet door and then a storage area. She signaled and they moved down a hallway to another set of double doors.

"They're running tapes, Napoleon," she said, pressing her ear against the door. Napoleon nodded, she turned the knob, and they both rushed in.

* * *

Charlie stood in a small shelter on the roof of UNCLE headquarters with her air evac team. To say they were pumped would be a gross understatement.

Her team had checked and rechecked supplies. Created multiple treatment plans for multiple injuries and then recreated them. Their energy was palpable.

"I take it that everything is in readiness," Alexander Waverly said, standing behind Charlie. She jumped at the sound of his voice.

"Sorry, sir. Adrenaline overload." Blushing, she smiled. "We've been ready for what seems like hours, but it hasn't been that long."

"I quite understand, Dr. Charles," Waverly said, watching her team pace, smoke, and chat. "We are all anxious to have Mr. Kuryakin and the extrication team home and safe."

His communicator beeped. "Waverly."

"Send the chopper," Mark Slate said, the sound of gunfire in the background. "The LZ is the roof. Jack's team is lighting the place now." Mark paused. "I'll leave my pen open. Triangulate on the signal. Slate out."

Waverly turned to inform Charlie, but she was gone, running to the chopper that was already lifting off.

He smiled to himself as he walked to the elevator. "Very impressive group of people, Alexander," he said aloud, pushing the button for his floor. "Very impressive, indeed."

* * *

Thom Sherrill barely had time to glance up before he found himself shoved against the wall, his right arm pulled painfully behind his back.

"Don't move, Sherrill," Peter Wilson growled in his ear. "Don't give me an excuse to kill you."

"Please, don't shoot me!" Sherrill cried, his voice high pitched and squealing. Peter glanced over his shoulder.

"How's he doing, mate?" he asked April Dancer.

"Breathing, but unconscious and unresponsive," she answered, releasing the straps holding Illya. "Come on, Illya," she crooned. "Wake up and look at me." She tapped his cheek. "It's me, April." Illya responded with a moan.

Peter handcuffed Sherrill and spun him around. "What did you do to him?"

"Nothing! I was … was … forced to participate in this experiment!"

Peter's gun made an indentation in Sherrill's throat. "Like I said, mate, don't give me an excuse to kill you." The silenced barrel of the gun pressed harder. "Collect everything you see, April, every vial, and every used syringe. We might find what we're looking for, since the good doctor doesn't seem willing to cooperate."

Sherrill swallowed hard, his Adam's apple scraping against the gun barrel. "I'll do what I can to help you."

Pete backhanded him, burning off some of his untapped anger. "We'll give this stuff to the lab boys, doc, and see what they come up with." He grinned malevolently. "April, do you think they'll have enough to test this stuff?"

April glanced up, glaring at Sherrill. "I'm sure they will, Pete. Do you have a likely lab rat?"

Pete winked at her and grabbed Sherrill's hair turning his head toward her. "I'm thinking that this one will do nicely. Your opinion, Agent Dancer?"

April noted the thin stream of blood leaking from Sherrill's split lip. "My first and only choice, Pete."

Sherrill managed to right himself and glare at Peter. "UNCLE doesn't work that way. You won't harm me in any fashion."

Peter back handed him again. "Don't presume to tell me what UNCLE will and will not do to the likes of you."

"Air Evac #1 in the LZ. Med team in route," Jack yelled over the wash of the rotors.

"Copy, Jack," April answered, pulling a blanket over Illya and taking his hand. "You're going home, Illya. Emerson will want to see those baby blues. You'd better practice now."

Illya coughed and grew increasingly pale.

"He's crashing!" Sherrill shouted. "Look. I can … I can help him."

"Sure you can," Pete said, resting his arm across Sherrill's throat. "Just like you helped him here."

"Please … let me … help him!"

"Fuck off, Sherrill," Charlie said, rushing to Illya's side. "Adrenalin!" She pushed the drug and watched the monitor. "Illya Nickovetch! Open your eyes!"

Illya's eyelids struggled to open and then stilled.

"Goddamn it," Charlie hissed. She tore open his shirt and rubbed his sternum until it was red from the friction. "Open your eyes, you stubborn Russian bastard!" she yelled. "Now! Open your eyes now!"

Illya's hand slowly moved and tried to push Charlie away. "No," he said lazily. "Go away."

Charlie laughed. "Make me, Blondie! Open your eyes!"

Illya's eyes fluttered open and he frowned. "Go away," he said, his voice a whisper.

"Soon, Blondie," Charlie said, helping the med techs move him onto the gurney. They attached new leads to his EKG pads, checked the read out, and then hung new bags of IV fluids. "TKO and I want 15 liters O2 non-rebreather." The techs nodded and wheeled Illya away. She grinned at the agents. "See you at HQ … and, bring dickhead with you. I've got plans for him."

* * *

Emerson stirred, realizing that her head now rested on a pillow and that she was alone in Waverly's study. She pushed up, found her shoes, and walked slowly into the outer office. BeBe smiled.

"They're on their way with him now, Emerson," she said, taking her hand. "Dr. Charles reports that he's responsive to verbal stimuli." The older woman grinned. "I believe she used the term 'pissed'."

Alexander Waverly's eyebrows shot to new heights.

* * *

"Napasha," Angelique purred, her back pressed against the wall, "you can't seriously intend to harm me." She pushed away from the wall and reached for him. "After all, darling, I save your dour, little Russian's life."

Napoleon slammed her head against the wall, his hands on her throat. His dark eyes filled with fury. Angelique clawed at him, leaving deep, bloody scratches on his hands. He did not relent.

"I should have done this long ago, Angelique," he hissed, watching her eyes glaze.

"Napoleon!"

"Back off, Mark!"

"Stop it! You don't want to kill her. Sherrill says that she developed the drugs. He doesn't know how to reverse the effects."

Napoleon released his grip and grabbed Angelique before she dropped to the floor. Throwing her over his shoulder, he ran for the elevator with Mark just behind him.

"I'll kill the bitch later," he said.

* * *

Emerson stood on the tarmac of the heliport waiting for the air evac to arrive. Her back ached, her head pounded, and her heart raced. The baby punched at her ribs. She patted her belly. "Hang on, little one," she said softly. "Papa's coming home."

The air around her moved upward and then shifted downward as the craft landed. Doctors, nurses, and med techs rushed past ready to load Illya onto the gurney. Marshalling all of her self control, she waited, her back pressed against the small enclosure that protected the elevator.

Napoleon stopped at her side watching as Charlie and the med team disappeared into the elevator. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and hugged her. "He's conscious and complaining, Em. I'd say that's good news."

Emerson leaned against him. "Napoleon, would you help me …"

She collapsed quietly in his arms.

* * *

The diffuse ache in her back competed with the searing pain in her belly. She winced and squeezed her eyes shut even more tightly, breathing through the pain. _This is not going to be a good day,_ her brain concluded. The pain faded a little and she forced open her eyes.

_I'm in UNCLE medical,_ she surmised, glancing at the monitor hanging above her bed. At least she assumed it was a monitor. Her eyes weren't exactly focusing all that well. She moved her arm and felt the tug of tape. _An IV. Nasal canula. Great. Now what have I done to myself?_

Emerson closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and began a survey of her body. Her hand shakily investigated her head and she was pleased to find no bandages or sutures. Her legs moved on command and without difficulty. She was breathing, obviously had a pulse and heartbeat if she could trust the constant, soft beep of the monitor. She moved to her belly.

"Where is my baby?" she shouted, trying to throw her legs over the edge of the bed. A knife-like pain in her belly took her breath away and she fell back onto the pillows.

"'Zdes', malen'kaya mat'," (Here, little mother) Illya's soft voice replied.

Emerson turned slowly toward him, tears falling. "Nikala!"

Illya grabbed his cane and hobbled to the bedside carrying a small bundle. He settled in, resting his leg on the mattress. He laid the baby between them and slowly unwrapped the blanket.

Emerson's fingers flew to her lips. "Oh, Nikala! He's beautiful!" The baby's blue eyes opened and sought her voice.

Illya smiled, tears shining in his eyes. "Emerson Myer Cates Kuryakin, may I introduce Alexander Illyich Cates Kuryakin?" Emerson brushed the soft, blond hair and took Illya's hand. "Alexi," Illya continued, "eto - Mama. No, Vy uzhe vstretilis', da?" (Alexi, this is Mama. But, you have already met, da?)

Emerson took the baby in her arms, kissing his tiny, round head. "Alexi, my love, I'm so sorry that I missed your debut." She looked at Illya. "Want to tell me what happened?"

Illya took her in his arms and kissed her hair. "I am told that you collapsed into Napoleon's arms just as the helicopter landed. He brought you to Charlie."

Emerson frowned. "She should have been busy with you!"

Illya nodded, amused by her concern. "So she was, Em. Fortunately, Dr. Schumann arrived not long after. She determined that you had been in labor for some time and both you and the baby were in grave danger." The baby yawned, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

"You were unconscious, Em," Charlie said, stepping into the room and picking up the thread of Illya's story. "Our little angel was in the breach position with one foot presenting. There was no way to change the course of things, so Dr. Schumann did an emergency C-section." Charlie glanced at the monitor. "Looking good, Em."

Emerson counted the small, long, thin fingers and all 10 toes. "Seems that everything's where it's supposed to be," she said, kissing Alexi's forehead. He squirmed and frowned.

"We should have named him Illya, Junior," she said, grinning at her favorite blond. "He's got your fingers and your attitude toward women!"

"You do not approve of his name, Em?" Illya asked, mimicking Alexi's frown.

She chuckled. "It's a wonderful name, Nikala, but you have to explain to the kids why you didn't use their choices."

"You'll love them, Blondie," Charlie said, giving Emerson a conspiratorial wink.

"What were their choices?" he asked, grinning at the anticipated response.

"Well, Tasha, Anushka, and Tia wanted to name him 'Ken' after Barbie's boy friend." She almost laughed at the confused look on his face. "Nicky wanted to name him 'Speed Racer' and Uncle Napasha that it was a great idea."

Illya nodded sagely. "I prefer Alexander," he said, his fingers brushing Emerson's cheek. "And, may I ask, who is 'Barbie', 'Ken', and 'Speed Racer'?"

Charlie and Emerson dissolved in laughter.

* * *

_This is a delightful place, _he thought, resting in his bed in UNCLE Medical._ He stood in the center of a field of wild flowers that danced to the tune of a sweet summer breeze. Golden haired children played around him. He tried to remember the name of their game. Ah, yes,_ he remembered, _hide and seek. He smiled, watching them hide in the long grasses. The morning sun shone brightly, casting short shadows._

_Illya counted the children … three little girls and two little boys. Their laughter and giggles tickled the ear of his mind. They took no notice of him._

_Three little girls, he thought, _watching himself in the field_. Anushka. Tasha. Tia. _This 'other' Illya smiled, his arms crossed over his black turtleneck sweater.

_Two little boys, _he noted, wondering why the children failed to notice him standing in their midst._ Nicky and …. Nicky and Alexi._

"Moi synov''a. Moi docheri. Moj vozl'ublennyj." (My sons. My daughters.) he murmured softly. "Moya sem''a." (My family).

More to come …


End file.
